


The Light from Passing Through

by PixChuu22



Series: Cathedral [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Omega John, Omega Verse, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 56,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2489843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixChuu22/pseuds/PixChuu22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes last saw Sherrinford Holmes, they were being told that Ford would be asking 'a favor' of them. The choices they are given limit them to the destruction of their bond as a Mated Alpha/Omega pair or the potential destruction of their lives, and one doesn't simply say 'no' to Sherrinford Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_"You raised your hand to your face as if_  
 _to hide it, the pink fingers gone gold as the light_  
 _streamed straight to the bone,_  
 _as if you were the small room closed in glass_  
 _with every speck of dust illuminated._  
 _The light is no mystery,_  
 _the mystery is that there is something to keep the light_  
 _from passing through."_

**_\- Richard Siken, "The Visible World_ ** _"_  
  


Dr. John Watson stood in the cluttered kitchen of 221B Baker Street, the flat he had shared with Sherlock Holmes for the last five years. He was watching with a kind of twitching, uncontainable nervous energy as Sherlock examined slides of skin scrapings through his microscope. John's fingers were tapping a repetitive tune on the tabletop next to Sherlock's elbow as John shifted from foot to foot, unable to keep himself still . He had been that way for the last two days, and he knew he was beginning to wear on his Alpha Mate's nerves, but somehow John could not stop himself. For once, his twitching was not due to incipient Heat, but was something he could lay entirely at the feet of his own nervous imaginings.

 "He said 'a few days,'" John said. It was a conversation they'd had several times in the last week, John bringing it up over and over while Sherlock's face grew tighter each time it was mentioned. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock's shoulders went taut as soon as John spoke the words although the dark-haired man did not straighten up from the microscope. "He clearly said he'd be contacting us to do him a favor in 'a few days.'"

 "It hasn't been that long," Sherlock pointed out in an unconcerned murmur, adjusting the focus minutely on the microscope, although his shoulders gave away how stressed out he truly was.

 "It's been almost _eleven_ days. That's more than 'a few.' We've actually moved into a whole new month at this point."

 Their current topic of conversation was Sherlock's eldest brother, Sherrinford Holmes. Despite the fact that John and Sherlock had been a Mated pair for over a year, John had only learned about Sherrinford in the last two months, due mainly to the fact that Ford had chosen to be estranged from his family and rarely spent time in England because of it. John had believed until that point that Sherlock had only one older brother: Mycroft, a man that Sherlock frequently implied _was_ the British government.

 Not for the first time in the last month, John found himself wishing that Ford had continued to stay out of the country. Despite the fact that Ford had saved them from a rather dangerous situation, offering them a getaway vehicle shortly after Sherlock had shot and killed a blackmailer threatening to expose a secret which would ensure John's being put to death, John had trouble feeling anything but cautious distrust towards Ford. Of course, Ford had made it clear from the first moment of meeting John that by saving their lives he was doing them a favor, and he expected a favor in return. That fact had somewhat tempered John's enthusiasm towards the man.

 John sighed, taking his hand back from tapping at the table. Sherlock's shoulders had been slowly growing tighter and tighter over the last few minutes and John realized that he was annoying his mercurial Alpha Mate.

 "Sorry," he murmured, reaching out to rub his hand gently across Sherlock's upper back, feeling the muscles relaxing almost immediately under his touch. After nearly a year of being Mated to and therefore allowed to touch Sherlock practically any time he wanted, John was still amazed at how the gorgeous, brilliant man responded to his touch. Sherlock was a genius in every sense of the word, his fantastic brain working at levels high above what most people could hope to achieve. He could look at someone and know their life history simply from their clothes, the way they held themselves, and what small possessions they kept on their person. He could step into a room and know whether a murder had been committed based upon scuff marks in the carpeting and the way the furniture was positioned.

 John, on the other hand, was a retired army captain and very good doctor, but he did not have Sherlock's talent for deduction. Despite this, Sherlock was devoted to John. Beyond having chosen John as his Omega Mate, Sherlock gave John considerations that he gave to no one else, allowing John to touch him and treating John kindly when what he gave the majority of the world was barely concealed disdain or cool disinterest.

 "I realize that waiting for Ford to contact us and let us know exactly what kind of favor we'll be expected to do for him is stressful for you, John, but worrying over it will change absolutely nothing. Obviously, something has delayed him contacting us a second time. This could work in our favor; he may have decided he doesn't need our help after all. Or, it may be that he is having difficulty sneaking past Mycroft's watchful eye; I would imagine that anything Ford would want to accomplish would be something Mycroft would want to prevent him from accomplishing. While I am sure Ford could set up a convincing ruse to distract much of Mycroft's attention by using Moriarty's ghost, there is no way that Mycroft would turn completely away from the problem of Ford, not even for Moriarty's return from the grave."

 John gave a soft snort of laughter, shaking his head. Eleven days before, every TV in Britain been taken over by an image of Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal and the most dangerous man in the world. The truly amazing part of this was that Moriarty had been dead for over four years, a suicide that had been meant to force Sherlock into killing himself, as well. It had only been through the application of his genius that Sherlock had managed to avoid dying, as well, when he fell off the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Sherlock had spent the two years following his apparent suicide traveling around the world, dismantling the extensive criminal network of which Moriarty had been the head. He'd succeeded, for the most part, and returned to London to resume his newly formed relationship with John. They'd had a rough time getting things sorted between them after John had spent two years mourning Sherlock, but they'd been happily Mated since then, despite efforts of various criminal elements to destroy that.

 "I just feel keyed up," John confessed, leaning gently against Sherlock's back and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, clasping his hands in front of Sherlock's sternum in a tight embrace.

 Sherlock sighed, giving up on his slides now that John was draped over him. He turned his head to cast a look over his shoulder at John. "Obviously."

 "I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know? It's barely been two months since you were shot by Moran, and now your oldest brother wants us to do him a favor. I can't help thinking that this is just going to lead to more trauma for one of us."

 "John, I honestly think you're getting too worked up about this. The two aren't really comparable. Moran was a hired killer. Ford's interests have always been more on the business side of things -"  
  
"Like Magnussen?" John quirked an eyebrow as he brought up the blackmailer who'd nearly managed to have John killed by leaking John's secrets. Sherlock's mouth snapped shut, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared over his shoulder at his Mate. John backed away, grinning faintly. It was rare for him to get the upper hand in one of their arguments; he was going to enjoy the moment. He moved to the counter, turning the kettle on with a flourish as Sherlock turned fully around in his chair to watch him, resting one forearm lightly on the chair's back.

 "Ford doesn't blackmail anyone. He doesn't have to. Very few people would willingly cross Sherrinford Holmes."

 "I'm touched that you think so highly of me, little brother."

 John and Sherlock spun towards the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room. Ford stepped through the doorway with the stalking slowness of a panther, a faint smile on his face as he glanced between the two men, obviously deeply amused at being the cause of their sudden alarm.

 "I let myself in; I hoped you wouldn't mind. After all, we're family." Ford spread his arms wide, palms up. The move was meant to look disarming, but combined with his razorblade smile and the knowing look in his chilly blue eyes, it ended up looking like Ford was preparing to pounce on them.

 "Ford." Sherlock said his brother's name with no welcome in his voice, his tone decidedly chilly as he rose from his chair and stepped between his brother and John. He was leaning subtly towards his brother, his eyes narrowing and jaw tightening as he stared the older man down, the challenge implicit in his pose. Ford stopped next to the head of the table, both eyebrows raising as he took in Sherlock's subtly threatening posture. John's mouth was hanging slightly open; Sherlock was protecting him from _Ford?_ Since when had Sherlock started going full-blown Alpha in his behaviors?

 Thankfully, Ford was able to correctly interpret his brother's posturing. "I mean your Mate no harm, brother. There's no need to treat me as a threat. Besides, word on the street is that he's _perfectly_ capable of taking care of himself." Ford slowly and deliberately slid his hands into his trouser pockets, affecting an air of calm disinterest as he stared down at the scattering of empty beakers on the near edge of the table.

 "Sherlock? You okay?" John asked, keeping his voice low and soft. Moving almost painfully slowly, Sherlock straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back as he stared at his brother, his face going calmly blank, hiding whatever he might actually he feeling at the sudden arrival of his eldest brother.

 "You startled me." Sherlock kept his eyes on his brother and his face expressionless, but his voice very low and dangerous.

 "I understand. It was a mistake; you're justifiably protective of your Mate after Moran tried to ensure his demise last October." Ford looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes, his expression assessing as he used his marginal height advantage to stare his brother down. "That might actually work for you."

 "What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, brow furrowing.

 "I wish to acquire a new form of synthetic adrenaline. It promises to be a real money-maker once it's released to the public. It's still in its testing phase now, but it's had promising results so far. Unfortunately, the only people with access to it are absolutely _wasting_ it on an underground Alpha fighting ring." Ford grimaced faintly, moving around the table to stand just in front of Sherlock, his deep-set eyes sharpening in assessment as he looked Sherlock up and down. "Imagine my delight when I heard that they were using it on Alphas exclusively."

 "Especially since you have an Alpha in your gene pool who owes you a favor." Sherlock's jaw tightened and John stepped up next to him; tensions were rising and he didn't want to know what would happen if Sherlock lost his often-tenuous hold on his temper and said something to make Ford angry, especially given their contentious past.

 "So, what... you want Sherlock to get involved in the fighting ring?" John asked.

 "I do, yes. I think he has the potential to rise to the top of the pack, given the right motivation." Ford's eyes slid to John, a subtle smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

 "Me?" John asked, making a face.

 "What Alpha wouldn't want to impress his Omega?"

 "Yeah, that's _not_ really how our relationship works." John crossed his arms and leaned back onto his heels a bit, smirking faintly. "He impresses me with his amazing brain, not his ability to knock an opponent down and keep them there."

 "I'll bet he could do both." Ford's tone was subtly suggestive and he tilted his head back slightly as he stared down his nose at John. "And, he would only need to stay involved with the group as long as it would take for him to steal a few samples of the synthetic adrenaline for me; I have scientists who could take over analyzing and synthesizing it from there."

 "I would be willing to get involved, but John stays out of it." Sherlock's tone was disdainful as he moved slightly in front of John, occluding him from Ford's line of sight. "There is no reason to involve him."

 "I think there is. Without him to motivate you, it's possible you'll decide not to do your _best_." Ford had turned his attention back to his younger brother, his expression sharpening as he focused on trying to convince Sherlock to do what he wanted. "Either both you _and_ John will be going to the fights, or you'll have to take option B."

 "Option B?" John stepped around Sherlock to stand beside him rather than be eclipsed by him; Ford was obviously not planning to attack him. At least, not right that second.

 "I knew there was a possibility you'd turn down my initial favor, so I had another I'd kept on the backburner."

 "What is option B?" Sherlock asked.

 Rather than answering, Ford pulled his mobile from a pocket of his suit jacket. He dialed and raised it to his ear. After a pause, he said, "Come up."

 "Who did you just phone?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing as Ford tucked the mobile away again.

 "An old friend." Ford pretended to pick a bit of lint off his sleeve, keeping his face angled down in an attempt to hide his self-satisfied smirk. It did not entirely work. "You'll be letting him stay with you for a month."

 "Out of the question." Sherlock's mouth twisted with annoyance, his eyebrows drawing down heavily as he chopped a hand through the air at Ford's suggestion. "I won't have anyone staying in our flat -"  
  
"You have an unused second bedroom upstairs," Ford pointed out. "And besides, he once let _you_ stay with _him_ for a month; don't you think it's time to reciprocate?"

John, feeling completely lost, looked up at Sherlock and saw that the color was quickly draining from his Mate's face, leaving him looking stunned and even more pale than he usually looked. "Sherlock?" he asked, worried, but Sherlock was moving forward slowly, brushing by Ford as he stepped into the sitting room.

"Who the hell did you call?" John demanded, pushing roughly past Ford without waiting for an answer, heading after Sherlock. Ford chuckled and followed along behind them at a leisurely saunter.

John could hear someone coming up the stairs to the sitting room. Sherlock had come to a stop just beyond the kitchen doorway, one foot planted ahead of the other as if he intended to take another step any second, his hands hanging limply at his sides, and his attention fully focused on the closed sitting room door.

It opened with the softest click and a man stepped in, his expression apologetic as he glanced around at the three other men assembled in the flat. His straight, dark brown hair was neatly combed away from his forehead and his dark, heavy-lidded eyes flicked quickly around the flat, taking in the sitting room and its clutter as well as the postures of the three men staring at him. He pressed his lips together tightly, obviously uncomfortable at the situation and the intense scrutiny being applied to him. His brow furrowed slightly as he turned his attention exclusively to Sherlock.

"Long time, Sherlock." Dublin was thick in his voice, lending a pleasant lilt to the words despite the uncomfortable and slightly apologetic expression on his face. He was still standing in the sitting room doorway as if unsure of his welcome, his hand resting on the doorknob.

"Victor," Sherlock whispered, his voice tight. "I thought you said..."

"Please, let's not talk about that." The man - Victor, apparently - cut Sherlock off quickly, the corners of his eyes tightening. "I was younger and stupider then."

"What is going on?" John asked, fighting against a wave of jealousy. He had never seen Sherlock look at _anyone_ like that before, and it made him feel like he wanted to shove Victor out of the sitting room door and lock it behind the other man.

"Ah." Sherlock startled slightly and turned to look back at John. After a moment's hesitation, he stepped back a pace to stand deliberately next to John, resting one hand on John's shoulder. "Victor Trevor, I would like to introduce you to my bonded Mate, John Watson. John, this is Victor, my..." He trailed off and John looked up at him, taking in the confusion on Sherlock's face.

"It's a bit difficult to define, isn't it?" Victor's voice had lowered conspiratorially as he stared at Sherlock with a sympathetic expression. Then, he stepped forward and offered his hand to John. John reached out to take it automatically, and Victor said, "I suppose you could say I was his first love."

John went still, his hand tightening on Victor's abruptly as shock shuddered through him. Victor gave a quick hiss of pain, his face pinching in, and John released his hand, stepping back and staring at Victor with confusion. Sherlock's first _love?_ What in the _hell_ was that supposed to mean?

"Isn't this fun?" Ford said, leaning against the kitchen doorjamb, his sharp smile spreading across his face as he stared between the other three men in the sitting room.

"I'd... like a moment with John." Sherlock turned and walked abruptly past Ford, heading for the bedroom.

"Yeah, that'd be good," John muttered, sending a murderous glance at Ford. Ford didn't miss it, raising his hands in an 'I mean no harm' gesture as his smile grew even wider, causing his eyes to crinkle at the corners with the strength of his mirth.

"I'll put the kettle on," Ford called after them, and John took delight in pulling the bedroom door shut and turning the thumb latch to lock the other two men out.

"All right." John turned to look across the room at Sherlock. The other man was pacing a small circle from the wardrobe to the foot of the bed and back. "Explain."

"Victor Trevor and I knew each other at university. He was the only one there besides my professors who treated me with anything besides disdain. It is hardly surprising that he and I would become close." Sherlock paced towards John and then turned to pace away again, stopping once he reached the bed and plopping down to sit on John's side with a sigh. He leaned his elbows onto his knees, burying his long fingers in his hair and addressing the floor. "I spent a month with him at his family's home over summer break. It was an eventful month: the first day I was there, his dog savaged my ankle - just playing with me, Victor assured me, but it didn't change the amount of tearing. It kept me bedridden for a week while it healed, an attempt to prevent me tearing the considerable number of scabs open. I had only Victor to entertain me. It rather solidified our friendship, making me feel closer to him than I'd ever felt to anyone before in my life. The second week, one of their staff attempted to kill his father and I was able to ascertain who the would-be murderer was. It was hardly my first successful case, but it was the first case that _mattered_ ; after watching me deduce my way to the perpetrator, Victor pointed out that I could make a career out of solving crimes. And, the week after that, he went into Heat."

"Victor's an Omega?" John asked, his voice blank with surprise.

 "The first Omega I'd ever met. He reinforced my beliefs that my Alpha nature was, in the end, utterly dismissible. We spent his Heat together, but I would not mark him; I did not feel drawn to do it, despite the depth of our regard for one another. Afterwards, he told me that if I had no interest in being his Mate and giving him heirs, he had no desire to see me again. He didn't return to classes after the break, and I granted his wish to avoid interaction with me and never sought him out again."

 "And now Ford wants him to stay in our flat for the next month. What reasons could he possibly have?"

 "I don't know." Sherlock raised his head from his hands to stare at John with a worried expression, his curls wildly disarrayed. "But I'm sure it won't be good for us."  
  



	2. Chapter 2

John moved across the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock, carefully sliding his arms around his Mate. Sherlock did not hesitate before he tipped his head to the side, resting it on top of John's and sinking into the comfort the shorter man was offering.

 "All right. So, our choices are either share the flat for a month with a man you spent a single Heat with who then told you he never wanted to see you again... or get involved in a highly illegal underground Alpha fighting ring. I know which one I'd prefer, given my choice," John said, keeping his tone light.

 "Hmm. Wait, which one would that be?"

 "I'd rather your ex in the flat for a month than put us in obvious danger. Besides, you can use the time to figure out the _real_ reason Ford wants him here." John gave Sherlock a half-smile as he twisted to look up at the taller man. "You know they aren't going to tell us the truth if we ask why Victor needs to stay here."

 "Probably not," Sherlock agreed.

 "So, you'll have to use your enormous intellect to sort it out of whatever little clues Victor drops. Think of it in _those_ terms, and it becomes a puzzle to solve rather than a inconvenience to tolerate." John slid his arms out from around Sherlock's ribcage slowly, rising to his feet with a wistful smile; he would have much rather stayed sitting on the edge of the bed with the taller man for the rest of the day, but that was not an option at the moment. "Come on; we'd better get back out there before they come in _here._ "  
  
"They wouldn't dare," Sherlock said, rising unwillingly from the edge of the bed to follow after John.

 "I wouldn't put it past Ford." John spoke in a mutter but Sherlock heard him, and it earned John a soft, low chuckle from Sherlock as John unlocked and opened the bedroom door to leave behind the quiet of the bedroom and return to their unwanted guests.

 True to his word, Ford had put the kettle on while John and Sherlock been talking. He and Victor were at the sitting room table with heavy mugs of tea in their hands, talking quietly. As soon as they heard John and Sherlock approaching, Victor rose to his feet, looking doubtfully between the two men.

 "A decision has been reached?" Ford asked, looking intently at his younger brother. "Oh, you're going to let Victor stay. Interesting. I'd have thought John would have put his foot down about that." 

"I did, actually." John slid his arm around Sherlock's lower back possessively, meeting Ford's gaze with his face expressionless. "I decided that letting Victor stay with us for a month is much less dangerous than infiltrating an illegal fighting ring." 

Ford was silent for a moment, eyes drinking in the sight of John's arm tightened around Sherlock's back, his smile growing sharper by the second. "Well, if nothing else comes of this, it will certainly be amusing to watch." He took one last sip of tea and set his mug down on the sitting room table, rising and brushing his hands across the trousers of his suit, smoothing away minute wrinkles.

 "You're going?" Victor asked, turning to watch Ford as the other man moved confidently across the sitting room.

 "I'll have the driver leave your luggage in the entryway downstairs. For the next month, 221B Baker Street is your home." Ford paused at the sitting room doorway, his eyes scanning across the three men he was leaving behind and his smile turning into a self-satisfied smirk. "Enjoy yourself."

 The door shut with a soft click and John cleared his throat, slowly taking his arm from around Sherlock's waist as he stepped forward to face Victor squarely.

 "I think it would be best if we get everything on the table immediately, don't you?" John asked, trying to make his voice sound reasonable. It was immensely hard when the person he was talking to kept sliding his covetous gaze over to John's Mate.

 "All right," Victor agreed, eyes ticking briefly to John before moving inexorably back to Sherlock.

 John pursed his lips, taking a long, slow breath. He would _not_ punch their new guest. Not even if that guest was staring at his bonded Mate like the tall, dark-haired man was a buffet laid out expressly for Victor to enjoy. "So, you're here for the month. What, exactly, is your purpose in being here?"

 Victor's eyebrows raised slightly as he turned to look at John. There was a moment's pause, his hands brushing uncomfortably down the front of his dark blue button-up shirt as he studied John's face. Finally he said, "I think that my reasons would be best kept between Sherlock and me."

 John's mouth dropped open in affronted anger and his breath exploded out of him in a shocked huff. Thankfully, Sherlock was speaking before John could catch his breath to respond to Victor.

 "You would be wrong, Victor." Sherlock's face had gone cool and empty at Victor's words, and he turned himself to face Victor fully with that icy expression, staring the other man down. "John is my bonded Mate. He and I _chose_ one another; this was not forced on us by tradition or the need to have heirs. Anything that you want to discuss with me, you can and _will_ discuss in front of John."

 John did not fight the smirk Sherlock's words brought to his face, crossing his arms over his chest and taking a single step closer to Sherlock so he could feel the other man's body heat along his left side.

 Victor's brows furrowed, mouth tightening as he glanced between John and Sherlock. The silence between the three men stretched for several long minutes, the only sound in the flat the dim murmur of Mrs. Hudson's telly from the flat below. Finally, he sighed and spread his hands, looking imploringly at Sherlock. "He won't like what I have to say. I asked for privacy to spare his feelings."  
  
John bristled. "I don't need you to spare my bloody feelings. _Why are you here?_ "

 "I still need heirs," Victor said, refusing to look away from Sherlock, his eyes pleading with the dark-haired Alpha. "I have the same problem now that I had in university: my father will not make me his official, legal heir until I've produced at least one baby."

 "Why not impregnate some willing young woman? You have plenty of money - or, rather, you will have once she gives birth." Sherlock looked completely disinterested in the conversation. John was glad Sherlock was handling it with such aplomb. John felt like he was a few panting breaths away from tackling Victor to the ground and throttling the man with much more intensity than he'd done Sherlock when Sherlock had reappeared with a cavalier 'Not dead' after two years away.

 "My first heir _has_ to be from an Alpha/Omega pairing. I _did_ explain this to you in university."

 "Did you? I must have deleted it once we were no longer in communication."

 Victor sighed heavily, jaw tightening as he stared at Sherlock with a mixture of longing and annoyance. John was familiar with that particular blend of emotions and his fists tightened painfully as he fought with his increasing urges to knock Victor away from _his_ Mate.

 "Look," Victor said, a pleading look in his eyes, "I'm not asking you to bond with me; that would be impossible anyway." He paused, eyes sliding over to John. He seemed to take in John's building anger for the first time and a look of alarm slid over Victor's face, his heavy-lidded eyes going wide. He took a step back before he was able to stop himself. His hands clenched by his sides at his unwilling retreat and he turned his eyes back to Sherlock. "No bonding. Just spend a Heat with me without any condoms or -"

"No," Sherlock said, and John felt a wave of relief go through him.

"Sherlock, it's -"  
  
"No." Sherlock tugged lightly at one cuff of his white button-up shirt, smoothing it out before turning his inquisitive gaze back to Victor. "I am curious, though: why is Ford supporting you in this?"  
  
Victor gave a heavy sigh, glancing back towards the closed sitting room door through which Ford had exited. "If I produce an heir from an Alpha/Omega breeding, I will be my father's legal heir and I'll have access to all our family fortunes. Victor will gain my financial backing for any two future business ventures of his choosing."

"Ah. And since I'm a part of a dying breed -"  
  
"We all are," Victor said, nodding towards John. "Precious few Alphas and Omegas are born anymore. Apparently, generations ago, _every_ child in an Alpha/Omega breeding would present as one or the other. My grandfather's siblings are all one or the other. My father has two siblings who presented as Omegas and he himself is an Alpha, but their youngest sister is a Beta. I was the only one of his five children to present; I'm the youngest and he'd just about given up hope. Neither my aunt nor uncle had any Alpha or Omega children, despite having found Alpha/Omega partners."

"Which they had to illegally purchase on the foreign black market, if the rumors are to be believed," Sherlock murmured, glancing down at his watch. "This is all very interesting, Victor, but there is absolutely no chance that I will be spending your Heat with you. I am bonded to John and I have no interest in changing that. You are welcome to spend the next month here, if that is your desire, but you will _not_ be getting what you want out of this, no matter how long you either pester or flatter me."

John didn't even try to hide the satisfied smirk on his face, leaning against the side of Sherlock's arm gently. Sherlock glanced down at him, a questioning expression on his face. He took in the stiffness of John's crossed arms, the speed of his breathing, the tightness of his face, his constricted pupils, and understanding swept over Sherlock's face. He gently put his arm around his Mate, holding John close to his side and letting his body heat and scent sweep over John in a comforting, familiar wave. Victor's face tightened and then he nodded.

"I'll take my bags up to the spare bedroom, then. Thank you for being generous hosts."

Victor opened the sitting room door and stomped down the stairs, the sounds of his heavy footfalls easy for John and Sherlock to make out. There was a pause once he reached the entryway downstairs while he was presumably gathering whatever cases Ford had left for him, and then the sound of him stomping back up the stairs towards their flat and then continuing up towards the bedroom John had once occupied.

"God." John turned to bury his nose against the muscle of Sherlock's shoulder near his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his Mate's skin and soap and shampoo until his lungs literally could not expand any more.

"Mmm," Sherlock rumbled softly. "I must admit that I am worried about this. Ford would not have given us two options unless he truly believed he had a good chance of gaining something from both of them. Obviously, if we joined the underground fighting ring, he would likely have access to the experimental synthetic adrenaline since I would almost certainly succeed in acquiring it. However, he had to've been aware that sending Victor in to try and tempt me away from you was unlikely to work and that he'd therefore not get his financial backer... unless he has something planned to load the deck in his favor."

John stiffened again, blowing his breath out in a long gust against the collar of Sherlock's white button-up shirt. "Jesus. Of course. What could he have in mind?"

"I've never been able to predict Ford." Sherlock's voice was low and unhappy, the corners of his mouth drawing down slightly at his admission. "We will have to be on our guard while Victor is here, that's all."

"Great," John said, but his voice sounded tired and unenthused. He tipped his head back slightly, looking up at Sherlock's face and taking in the taller man's unhappy expression. "Just a few months, Sherlock, that's all I want... just a few months where nothing is happening to us beyond basic, normal _life_."

"Sounds hellish." Sherlock's eyes widened slightly in alarm as he contemplated John's words.

"Well, except for interesting cases. I mean, that's a given," John said, giving Sherlock a quick squeeze as he buried his nose back in the taller man's shoulder muscle, lips pressing just above Sherlock's collarbone where the opened top two buttons of his shirt left the skin exposed. "Let's say, for argument's sake, that Ford _has_ loaded the deck in his favor; do you have a contact number for him in case we need to call this off?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, running one broad hand gently down the back of John's shirt. "But we will _not_ need to call it off. Victor will try to tempt me and I will refuse him. This will be tedious, but it isn't anything we can't get through. The next month will be easy."

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for getting this chapter up later in the day; the first trimester is really kicking me around. Yes, I'm pregnant. Yes, it was planned and wanted, but that doesn't stop me from being constantly exhausted and nauseated. Enough about me - look, a new chapter!

It started small.

The next morning, John woke alone in bed; this wasn't an uncommon occurrence, owing to Sherlock's tendency to creep out of bed to continue researching cases or to work on experiments after John had fallen asleep curled against his Mate's body. Waking alone wasn't alarming, and John took his time to stretch and roll out of bed, grabbing his dressing gown from inside the wardrobe across the bedroom before he headed out. He didn't mind wandering around the flat in his undershirt and pyjama pants when it was just him and Sherlock, but he had absolutely no desire for Victor to see him like that.

When John stepped out of the bedroom he and Sherlock shared, tying the belt of his dressing gown around his waist, he could smell bacon frying. For a moment, he thought perhaps Mrs. Hudson had come up to surprise them for some reason - it was something she occasionally did, especially if she got a good deal on bacon or ham at the shops - but then he heard a masculine voice singing softly enough that he couldn't make out any words, and John froze, staring down the hall and into the kitchen.

He had one moment to try and compose his features before he saw Victor walk around the kitchen table with plates in his hands, still singing softly to himself as he set breakfast.

John's mouth tightened and he moved down the hall to the kitchen, eyes scanning for Sherlock. It was a relief to see that his Mate was not in the kitchen with Victor but was instead seated in his black leather armchair in the sitting room, apparently busily working on his laptop and still dressed in the same clothes he'd had on the night before when he'd curled next to John in their bed.

"Good morning," Victor said, shooting John a winning smile. "Since I'm your guest, I thought I'd make breakfast for the two of you. I've been told I'm quite good at the domestic arts, but you'll have to let me know; I don't get that many chances to practice, thanks to the hired help."

"I'm surprised." John's voice was tight as he scanned across the eggs, toast, baked tomatoes, and bacon that waited on neatly arranged plates and platters on the table. "I would have thought that you wouldn't have _any_ experience keeping house, what with your privileged upbringing."

"I'm an Omega." Victor gave a small shrug, eyes downcast as he spoke. "My father expected me to have at the minimum a passable knowledge in everything my Alpha might someday require of me. Perhaps you and I could talk later; I had some trouble with the oven. I'd love to know its hot spots."

John's lips pursed as Victor raised his face and smiled at John again, the expression even making it into his earnest blue eyes. The man was obviously trying to be likeable. The fact that John had _never_ trained in the 'homely arts,' as most Omegas did, was something that usually didn't bother him. But with Victor Trevor standing at the kitchen table with a meal he'd prepared laid out before him waiting on _John's_ Alpha to partake of it, John suddenly found he wished he had enough talent in the kitchen to put Julia Child to shame.

"I'm not actually all that familiar with the oven," John confessed, and Victor's eyebrows drew down slightly as if he were confused by John's words. "We like takeaway most days. I can put something together in a pinch..." John trailed off as Victor's eyes widened, John's admission sinking in slowly. After an uncomfortable silence where John stared at Victor with a subtle challenge on his face and Victor stared back with obvious censure, the other Omega turned abruptly to look into the sitting room.

"Sherlock, breakfast is ready," he called, keeping his back firmly to John as the shorter man drew in a slow, angry breath, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"Mm," Sherlock murmured, still staring at his laptop. "Not now."

"It'll get cold," Victor pressed, but Sherlock did not even bother with a response this time, focusing fully on his laptop. Victor stood still for a moment, obviously unsure how to proceed.

"He's not coming." John pulled out a chair for himself, reaching to take a plate from the waiting stack and serve himself. "He doesn't eat that often, actually. Especially not when he's working on case." John didn't bother to mention that they didn't actually _have_ a case on at present; no need to rub in Sherlock's rejection of Victor's meal.

Victor made a small noise as he turned to glance at John, obviously unhappy. Finally, though, he joined John at the table and the two Omegas ate without conversation, the flat silent except for the scrape of cutlery on the plates and the tapping of keys on Sherlock's laptop.

After breakfast, Victor cleared up while John went to take a shower and get dressed for the day. He spent the shower reassuring himself that Sherlock didn't _like_ the typical Omega role, so there was absolutely no reason for John to feel like Victor had one-upped him by making breakfast - a breakfast that Sherlock had not even taken a single bite of, after all. Besides, if John actually _did_ cook every meal in 221B, he probably would have smashed Sherlock's microscope over the other man's head long ago just based on how rarely Sherlock actually partook of any of the food John offered him.

When John exited the bedroom, clean and fully dressed, he was pleased to see that Sherlock had moved from the sitting room to the kitchen, his attention fully focused on a series of slides he had prepared. John felt his annoyance at the uninvited guest bubbling up in him again when he saw Victor opening and closing cabinets in the kitchen. He stepped around the other man without a word, clicking the kettle on.

"Oh, John, good." Victor straightened up from his search under the kitchen sink. "I thought I'd tidy up a bit. Where are the cleaning supplies?"

John hesitated before answering. His first reaction was to tell Victor that the flat didn't _need_ to be cleaned, because John took care of that. But, he realized he was being ridiculous; the flat _did_ need to be cleaned. Thanks to Sherlock's strange pastimes, the flat was in a semi-permanent state of needing to be cleaned. John had been so distracted the last month that he'd barely done any cleaning, and the few small things that Sherlock allowed Mrs. Hudson to do around the flat had not quite beat back the entropy of dust and bits of torn paper and tracked-in-dirt smudges, not to mention the stranger odds and ends that almost certainly only happened in a flat occupied by a mad genius like Sherlock Holmes.

 "Yeah, all right," John finally said. "You're actually almost there. We keep the cleaning things under the sink. Just move the tray of... of... whatever that is."

 Victor gave a soft snort of laughter before nudging the deep tray to one side, the liquid inside jiggling slightly as if it were the consistency of gelatin rather than a true liquid. He reached behind it and pulled out the small basket of minimal cleaning supplies. He stared at it for a second before leaning lower to look under the sink again, obviously looking for the supplies he must have missed.

 "That's it," John said, voice tight. "That's all there is."

 "Oh." Victor came out from under the sink once more and looked back down at the small basket rested beside his foot. "You uh... don't do a lot of cleaning?"

 John stiffened at the subtle judgment in Victor's voice. "Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, does quite a bit of neatening up. I've found that everything we need for cleaning beyond what she does fits neatly into that little basket."

 "I'll go out to the shops later." Victor shut the cabinet door and rose from his crouch, basket in his hands. "I'll get a few more things to really get this place sparkling."

 John pinched his lips together as Victor wandered away, singing under his breath again as he began scrubbing at the wallpaper in the sitting room with a flannel and the all-purpose cleaner John kept in the basket.

 John put together a cup of tea with quick, angry movements, shutting cabinets with more force then necessary. When hot water slopped over the edge of the mug onto the counter, he got out a clean flannel and scrubbed the counter to within an inch of its life, jaw tight. He turned on the tap and scrubbed the few dishes in the sink; unsurprisingly, Victor had cleaned up everything after breakfast and there was only an old teacup that had been located beneath the edge of the sitting room curtains and a knife with butter still on it. Obviously, Sherlock had made himself toast at some point while John had been having a wash.

 With the two dishes cleaned, John turned back to the cup of tea. He added two heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of milk, the spoon clattering angrily against the ceramic sides as he stirred. He turned and plunked the mug down at Sherlock's elbow before crossing his arms and leaning back against the kitchen counter, still silently fuming.

 Sherlock glanced up from the microscope for a brief moment, eyes skimming across John's face and body. He turned back to the microscope, sliding his current slide out and putting a new one in its place. He spoke quietly, his voice a soft rumble that John had to lean closer to hear. "Are you sure you can handle this, John?"

 John sighed, stepping over to the kitchen table. He bent down, resting his elbows on the table and ruffling his hands through his hair viciously for a second. He stayed that way, fingers dug into his short salt-and-wheat hair as he stared at the tabletop and tried to take long, slow breaths. Finally, he raised his head up, and stared at Sherlock, taking in the man's perfect profile and watching the faint movements of his eyes as he studied the slide. John spoke in a near whisper, trying not be overheard by the still-singing Victor in the other room. "I have to, don't I? Besides, he's _not_ unpleasant. It's just..."

 "He makes you feel like less than what you actually are," Sherlock murmured, switching slides yet again. This time, though, he did not return his attention immediately to the microscope. He looked at John, pale silvery-blue eyes flicking across his face and body. "Be assured, John, you are twice the Omega Victor could ever be."

 "With my lack of cooking skills and how filthy the flat has been lately, we both know that's not true."

 "What does that matter?" Sherlock asked, looking truly puzzled. "What do cooking skills have to do with anything? And doesn't Mrs. Hudson clean the flat?"

 "I'm your Omega Mate." John's voice was full of self-recrimination, and he tipped his head down to stare at the table top. "Those are tasks that I'm _supposed_ to be doing. I'm _supposed_ to ensure my Mate is comfortable and well-looked-after, and the most domestic thing I can manage to do is make _tea_. And even that one is hit-or-miss; Mrs. Hudson does the tea most mornings. I only fill in on the days we wake up early and do the occasional midday tea when the mood strikes."

 Sherlock shook his head, leaning down slightly to catch John's eyes despite the other man's bowed head. "You _do_ look after me. And you do it without cooking or dusting. Why would it matter to me that you prefer takeaway curry to an oven roast? Or that you let Mrs. Hudson do the Hoovering instead of doing it yourself? I don't see what that has to do with anything. I love you because you're John Watson, not because you're an Omega. And you always make my tea perfectly." And with that, Sherlock lifted the mug to take a deliberate gulp before looking back at his slide, obviously feeling like the conversation was handled.

 John laughed softly to himself, looking fondly at the mad genius he had chosen as his Mate. After a moment, he reached up reflexively to smooth his hair back down from where he had so thoroughly ruffled it in his earlier contemplative frustration. Sherlock's eyes slid away from the microscope as John stroked his hair flat and John did not miss the slight tightening of Sherlock's face.

 "What it is?"

 "I liked your hair like that. It looked the same as it does just after sex," Sherlock admitted, and John felt a hot flush simmer up his cheeks as a second, slower heat made its way down into his groin.

 "I wouldn't mind it being mussed if that _were_ the reason." John stepped over to press a soft kiss into the curls on the crown of Sherlock's head. Sherlock turned his face from the microscope, rubbing his nose into the softness of John's belly and taking a long, slow breath. John wrapped one hand around Sherlock's shoulder, stroking his upper arm lightly as his Mate scented him. He realized how tight Sherlock's body was being held and thought back over the morning. Ever since he'd woken up and seen Sherlock in the sitting room, the other man had been holding himself as if he were expecting an attack at any moment. The greedy way Sherlock was inhaling John's scent, pressing his face into John's stomach hard enough to be almost painful, made it suddenly obvious to John just how uncomfortable Sherlock was with having Victor in their flat.

 "Oh, Sherlock," John whispered, his voice fond as he rubbed his palm soothingly up and down Sherlock's upper arm and shoulder, giving the other man a gentle tug towards him despite the hard press of Sherlock's face into his belly. "I didn't realize how uncomfortable this was making you. I was focused on how much it was bothering _me_ to have Victor in our flat. Should we take a bit of time to ourselves?"

 Sherlock hesitated, still taking long, slow inhalations of John's scent with his face pressed into John's shirt. Finally, Sherlock nodded without moving his face away from John.

 "Right. Come on, then." John tugged gently at Sherlock as he took a step back, forcing Sherlock to let go of him. Sherlock rose from the kitchen table slowly, his eyebrows drawn low over his eyes; he did not like showing any weaknesses, John knew. He liked to seem impenetrable, perfect, and all-knowing and unshakable around anyone who wasn't John. Being trapped in his flat with an ex with whom he hadn't spoken in years and who was hoping to be impregnated by him had to be absolute hell.

 John slid his hand gently into Sherlock's and the other man gripped back, hard. That was the moment Victor stepped back into the kitchen, smiling faintly. "All right, lads, I'm afraid I'm going to have to head out for supplies. There are some stains that just won't scrub clean, and I'm sure I could get them sorted if I only had the right equipment. And the wood floor looks like it hasn't seen a bit of wood wax in years."

 "Pick up milk while you're out," Sherlock murmured, not even glancing back over his shoulder at Victor; his eyes were fixed on John's face unerringly. John looked back over his and Sherlock's shoulders at Victor and gave the other man a tight smile. For his own part, Victor was staring at the two of them with pursed lips, eyes taking in the clasped hands and how closely they were standing together, their backs given to him in subtle refusal.

 "Okay, I'll find the nearest Tesco," Victor finally said, hesitating for a moment before he nodded. "Be back in a bit."

 They stood in place, listening as Victor's footsteps headed up to the bedroom he was staying in before clumping down to the ground floor. When the front door shut, Sherlock turned and wrapped his arms around John's upper body tightly, pinning John's arms to his sides and pressing his body flush with John's before burying his nose into John's hair, his chest heaving against John's as hard as if he'd just run a race.

 "Whoa, Sherlock," John said soothingly, holding still and letting Sherlock just breathe him in. "It's all right. He's gone now. It's all right."

 "This is torture." Sherlock's words were whispered against John's scalp, his breath warming the skin delightfully despite the pain in Sherlock's voice. "He's always _watching_ me."

 "I know," John said softly, holding absolutely still as Sherlock's nose and mouth brushed through his hair, snuffling softly. Sherlock was not acting at all like himself, and John wasn't entirely sure how to respond. Holding still seemed a safe choice.

 "I thought this would be the easier choice, but his eyes are on me constantly. He always looks as if he's expecting something from me, and his expectation is starting to make me feel _frantic._ "

 "All right, come on. Let's go to the bedroom; you need grounding and the only thing I can think of to absolutely lay you out is a good orgasm." John wriggled slightly, trying to free himself from the tight circle of Sherlock's arms. "Let go just a bit and we can get you taken care of."

 "I don't think I'll be able to relax enough to have an orgasm," Sherlock confessed, but he loosened his hold around John slightly, letting his hands slide slowly down John's arms. He twined the fingers of one hand through John's, holding on tightly.

 "Leave that to me." John smiled faintly, giving Sherlock's hands a little squeeze. "I'm sure I can help you forget everything."


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as they'd stepped into their bedroom, John carefully tugged his hand free of Sherlock's, turning back to both shut and lock the bedroom door. It made the privacy of the bedroom seem more complete and he heard Sherlock's soft sigh behind him.

 "Better?" John turned around to look at his Mate. Sherlock's body was still held taut and tense, almost as if he were waiting for an attack, but the furrows on his forehead were slightly less pronounced.

"Mm," Sherlock murmured, and John stepped up close, tipping his head to the side and baring the scarred bite mark on the side of his neck. Sherlock had left the imprint of his teeth there almost ten months before during one of John's every-six-month Heats, Bonding them together as a Mated Alpha/Omega pair. It had actually been their second Bonding, owing to circumstances that neither of them could exactly control, but it was the one that would be permanent. Baring the mark to Sherlock was a reminder to his emotionally frustrated Mate, and John smiled softly as Sherlock leaned his face down to press a soft kiss to the scars.

It was no surprise when Sherlock tipped his head to bury his nose in the nape of John's neck, drawing in a long breath. There were times when Sherlock had trouble centering himself; utilizing the stability of his Mate was something Sherlock had employed frequently over the last nine months. Usually, it was necessary when Sherlock's massive intellect was racing with nothing to focus on; this was the first time John had been forced to utilize their Mating bond because of emotions.

"There, Sherlock." John's voice was low and soothing as Sherlock breathed deeply of his Mate's familiar and comforting scent, sliding around to press his nose and lips just under John's jaw. John looped his arms loosely around Sherlock's waist, holding him but not constraining him. "It's all right now. I've got you."

Sherlock sighed a warm breath against John's throat, his tongue flicking out to taste the skin over John's Adam's apple before he moved around to the unmarked side of John's neck, pressing several lingering kisses to the warm, smooth skin there.

Moving very slowly, John backed Sherlock towards the bed, his palms spread wide over Sherlock's back to support the other man as he walked backwards at John's urging. When they reached the bed, John turned slowly until he could lower them down to the mattress side by side, giving Sherlock constant skin contact.

Sherlock's hands slid slowly down John's stomach to grip the edge of the button-up where it was tucked into John's denims. With one slow, continuous pull, Sherlock had the shirt untucked and was able to slide his hands onto John's belly. He smoothed his palms over the broad plain of John's stomach and up to his chest, still pressing soft kisses along John's shoulder and neck. He had stopped scenting at John's neck at some point, his attention turning to more pressing matters.

John had one arm pillowed under his head, his eyes shut as he relaxed under Sherlock's attentions. The warm hands sliding up and down his stomach and chest were both arousing and soothing. John jumped when Sherlock applied to barest edge of teeth to his shoulder, moaning softly when Sherlock soothed the bite by laving it with the flat of his tongue.

The desire to grab onto Sherlock was strong. John wanted to stroke his hands over Sherlock in mimicry of what Sherlock was doing to him, but he held back; Sherlock needed to feel in control just then. With Victor in the flat under Ford's orders, much of Sherlock's autonomy had been stolen from him. John couldn't give it back, but he could give Sherlock this quiet, stolen moment.

Sherlock withdrew his hands from inside John's shirt, undoing the buttons slowly from bottom to top. He had lifted his head to watch the slow unveiling of John's skin, his eyes rapt. John never tired of seeing the appreciation in Sherlock's eyes. He knew he was fit enough and not unpleasant to look at, but Sherlock was absolutely gorgeous and he should have been far out of John's league. When Sherlock looked at him like this, John felt as if he were the most exquisite person in existence.

With the buttons undone, Sherlock was able to pull John's shirt off with only a little assistance from John to free the shirt where it was trapped under John's body. The dark-haired man immediately set to worshipping every exposed inch of skin with kisses, licks, and nibbles, pausing here and there to take a slow sniff before continuing his exploration.

John muffled a giggle as Sherlock's lips slid around to the dip of his waist, tickling lightly over the skin. The giggle cut off when Sherlock's teeth nipped him, making John writhe briefly.

"Mmm, I like that." Sherlock's voice was a low, familiar murmur and his breath was delightfully warm against John's side. To punctuate the statement, he nipped again. He 'mmm'ed again as John writhed in response. Sherlock leaned back slightly, nudging John onto his back before resting an elbow on the bed next to John's head, leaning his own head onto his hand as he surveyed the other man.

"Feeling a little better?" John asked, smiling as he took in the calm expression and relaxed lines of Sherlock's body.

"Much."

John did not miss the faint grimace the followed the word, however, and he pushed up slightly to mirror Sherlock's position, bracing his elbow on the mattress and leaning his cheek into his palm. "What are you thinking?"

"Victor will be back soon."

"Ah, no, stop. You're _not_ thinking about Victor right now." John sat up, pinning Sherlock with a mock-stern glare.

"It's hard not to," Sherlock admitted, his brow furrowing again as his worries pushed back to the front of his mind. "I feel almost as if I'm trapped by him being here in our flat. This would be much more tolerable if there was good case on right now, but there's _nothing_. The only way to escape the flat without him following after like a particularly annoying puppy would be if we went out on a date. Should we do that? Start 'dating' like ordinary people?"

John tried to imagine going to dinner and a film with Sherlock and grimaced immediately at the mental image. Attempting to make small talk and probably falling into a discussion of advanced rigor mortis in a posh restaurant or sitting in a darkened theatre while Sherlock shouted at the screen when the plotline proved completely predictable after only fifteen minutes? Both sounded like they were likely to _increase_ the amount of stress plaguing them. "No, that's _not_ going to help us. Look, I told you that you needed to take your mind _off_ of Victor. So, shut your mouth and let me distract you."

 John pushed into a sitting position and braced his hands on either side of Sherlock's shoulders, swooping in to press his lips to Sherlock's before the other man could answer.

 Sherlock had been in control for the first half of their encounter; he had needed it, John knew. He had needed to feel like there was some aspect of his life - in which Victor Trevor had temporarily insinuated himself - which Sherlock had complete control over. However, Sherlock's tendency to obsess over things was going to be problematic unless John took the situation in hand.

 John fed at Sherlock's mouth, sucking at Sherlock's bottom lip until the other man voiced a breathy sigh. He swept his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, tasting the tea Sherlock had sipped earlier, and felt a wave of self-satisfaction; Sherlock had not eaten the breakfast Victor had made for him, but he had drunk the tea John made for him. The small victory made John feel a wave of possessive happiness; Sherlock was _his_ Mate, and no once-upon-a-time lover was going to change that.

 John broke the kiss to press his lips in a trailing series of kisses along Sherlock's jaw and down the side of his neck, but this was not a moment for soft, subtle love making. Sherlock needed distracting and he needed it immediately, before his amazing mind could circle around once again to the problems of Victor Trevor and Sherrinford Holmes.

 John undid the buttons of Sherlock's shirt with efficiency, keeping his eyes locked with Sherlock's for the entire process and letting his Mate see his obvious desire. As soon as he parted the shirt, John leaned down and applied his teeth to one of Sherlock's nipples, biting hard enough to make Sherlock cry out and arch his upper body up from the bed, his long fingers plunging into John's short hair and struggling to get a grip. John released the nipple and soothed it with soft brushes of the tip of his tongue, circling the tiny nub of flesh until Sherlock's back relaxed and his hands slid down from John's hair to hold onto his shoulders. That was when John slid his mouth across to Sherlock's other nipple and repeated the process, teeth clamping down just this side of too-much and making Sherlock arch and cry out, his long fingers tightening on John's shoulders.

 John soothed the second nipple just as he'd done the first, keeping up the soft licks until Sherlock relaxed down again. This was the best way to keep Sherlock's mind occupied during sex when problems kept trying to intrude, John had found. The infinitesimally small pains quickly soothed by pleasure kept Sherlock from focusing on anything but his bodily sensations and John.

 John drew his lips down Sherlock's sternum and sucked a red mark in the flesh just next to Sherlock's navel, keeping the pressure on until Sherlock gasped his name and curled his fists into the sheets on either side of his body. As he laved the red mark with the flat of his tongue, John was also undoing the button and zip of Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock lifted his hips minutely as John pushed both trousers and pants down, stopping once he had them at Sherlock's knees. That was far enough for what John had in mind.

 Sherlock's hipbone was John's next goal, and he caught the jut of thin skin and bone in his teeth, pressing down until Sherlock howled his name, jerking ineffectually at the bed sheets. When John took his mouth away, there was a pale imprint of his teeth in Sherlock's skin. It reddened as blood rushed back into it and John smiled at his own, less-permanent mark on Sherlock's body. Sherlock lifted his head and caught John's eyes, his own subtle smile approving.

 That was when John turned his attention to Sherlock's jutting cock. It had been growing harder as John had worked his way down Sherlock's body and it stood at attention now, begging for John's ministrations. He was happy to comply.

 John moved over to his Mate's cock and engulfed it abruptly and fully in his mouth, working not to gag as the head of it bumped the back of his throat. He was still avoiding the slower rhythms of gentle love making, keeping Sherlock on the edge of control. No teeth now, though. It was all lips and tongue and suction, a medley of sensation that brought Sherlock's hands back to John's hair again. He gripped at the short strands with desperation, his breath a wild panting broken only by low, frantic groans as John sucked and moved on his cock.

 John bobbed his head up and down, keeping the suction going as he tasted the warm, velvety-soft skin of Sherlock's throbbingly hard cock in his mouth, enjoying the familiarity. After one year together, sex had still not become boring; nothing about Sherlock's body bored John. Every familiar plane and bump and flavor thrilled him with the knowledge that Sherlock was his Mate, his to enjoy and to bring enjoyment to.

 "John," Sherlock gasped, an edge of near-panic in his voice. Too fast, then.

 John slowed his rhythm, using more tongue and less sucking, and Sherlock's hands went from a distressed gripping of John's hair to a gentle gliding, stroking worship. The panic was absent from Sherlock's voice as he whispered, "Yes, John. God, yes."

 A quick roll of his eyes to take in Sherlock's expression told John that he had achieved his goal: Sherlock was utterly blissed out and no longer worrying about all the problems pressing in on them. John let himself relax and concentrated fully on enjoying the moment, twisting his body until he could press his own hard cock against Sherlock's leg, thrusting subtly as he worked to bring Sherlock off.

 John heard the change in Sherlock's breathing moments before Sherlock's hands tightened slightly in his hair. "John, John, John," Sherlock chanted, shaking his head slowly from side to side as if negating his own orgasm. John wrapped one hand around the base of Sherlock's cock, matching the rhythm of his bobbing suction to the movements of his hand. Sherlock continued his whispered mantra, his voice growing thin as his orgasm bore down on him.

 Sherlock's hips bucked up once and then he was coming in hot spurts in John's mouth, still whispering John's name in a worshipful litany. John swallowed and swallowed, still thrusting against Sherlock's leg. As soon as he swallowed the last mouthful, he pushed up onto his knees beside Sherlock, undoing the button and zip on his denims and pulling his own painfully hard cock out of the front of his pants. It took only a few quick strokes to bring himself off, voicing a low groan as he came in bursts over Sherlock's bare belly and chest.

 John slumped back on his heels, sighing heavily. Sherlock brought one hand up to lazily draw his fingers through John's come, smearing it into his skin as he smiled to himself.

 "I enjoy watching you do that." Sherlock's voice was a low rumble, utterly contented. "I enjoy watching you come, especially if you are coming on me."

 "Yeah, well, I enjoy doing it. Obviously." John flopped down onto the bed beside Sherlock and pressing himself against the taller man's side.

 "It's not something a typical Omega would do," Sherlock observed.

 "I'm not a typical Omega." John's words were a mutter and his body tightened slightly as Sherlock's choice of phrase needled at him. Was Sherlock rethinking things now that he had Victor's example of a typical Omega around the flat?

 "No, you aren't," Sherlock agreed. "Which is fortuitous because that makes you absolutely perfect for me."

 John relaxed, a smile tugging up one corner of his mouth as he nuzzled his nose against Sherlock's shoulder. "You should wash before it dries on you."

 "Mm," Sherlock rumbled, twisting his head to the side to brush his lips across John's forehead. "Later. For now, I just want to enjoy the scent of Mate and sex and lay here with you."

 "All right," John said agreeably, closing his eyes. "Let's just lay here for a bit."


	5. Chapter 5

It ended up being at least an hour before John woke up, spooned against Sherlock's scarred back and slightly chilly from falling asleep both without putting a shirt on and without kicking the blankets up over them.

 Sherlock was still dozing, his breathing slow and soothing. For a moment, John just lay next to his Mate, listening to the soft sounds of Sherlock at rest. Then he heard a heavy thump from outside the sanctity of the bedroom and went rigid with sudden, unpleasant tension; Victor was obviously back from his shopping trip.

 Sherlock stirred a moment later, making soft noises of protest as he twisted to press his face into the pillow beneath his head. John frowned slightly; he knew Sherlock hadn't slept the night before and now his brief nap had been interrupted by their unwanted guest. He wished suddenly that _he_ could phone Ford and call off the experiment of having an unMated Omega staying in their flat, but he knew Sherlock would be furious with him. After all, as awful as having Victor in the flat _was,_ it was considerably safer than infiltrating an underground fighting ring which pitted Alpha against Alpha and which used an experimental synthetic adrenaline in the fights.

 There was nothing to be done; Victor would have to be tolerated, even if his efforts at cleaning the flat woke Sherlock from the first sound sleep he'd had in several days.

 "I know." John spoke in a low murmur, pressing up onto one elbow and leaning out to kiss Sherlock's bare biceps. "You ought to have a quick shower, though; you have to be fairly uncomfortable with come all over your chest."

 "I don't 'have to be' uncomfortable," Sherlock grumbled, throwing his arm over his face, but John could tell the other man wasn't actually annoyed at John's word choice. He was grumbling because he was unhappy with Victor and Ford, not John.

 "Well, I'm going to head out there and see if I can stop Victor from rearranging the entire flat while he's cleaning. I'll leave you to get a shower, all right?" John scooped his shirt from the foot of the bed, sliding it back on and doing up the buttons as he moved towards the bedroom door. He paused long enough to tuck his shirt back into his denims and redo the zip and button before throwing one last look over at Sherlock. The dark-haired man was peeking out from underneath his arm, watching John. "Git," John said fondly before unlocking the door and exiting the room.

 His mood was vastly improved by both his orgasm and by spending time alone with Sherlock, and John was able to put aside his discomfort with Victor enough to help the other man in his efforts to neaten up the flat by dusting the living room. Sherlock hated the flat being dusted, John knew, but when it was thick enough to look like a covering of snow on the shelves, it was time to dust.

 Thankfully, Victor seemed disinclined to chat while cleaning. He did, however, keep up a continuous low prattle of songs, the words sung low and deep and somewhat under his breath. John tried to let it become background noise, but it was hard; everything about Victor irked him. It was a ridiculous reaction, but there it was.

 It was a relief when, thirty minutes later, Sherlock came rushing through the flat fully dressed, calling out, "John! Lestrade just phoned. He's got a case for us."

 Victor broke off mid-word in his song and stood slowly from where he'd been polishing the legs of the sitting room table, his expression oddly fond as he watched Sherlock sweeping through the sitting room. "He got like that when he was solving my Da's case."

 John glanced at Victor and then shook his head faintly. Jealousy over someone who'd once been close to Sherlock made no sense; they weren't close _now_. John cleared his throat, forcing a smile onto his face. "Cases are what sustain him, I think. It's certainly not food."

 Victor gave a quick, surprised laugh as he turned to stare at John, his brow furrowing slightly as he took in John's face. "What? No. _You_ sustain him. He's much more focused on reality now than he ever was at uni, even when he was staying with my family for a month on holiday. You help him center himself. You two are good together."

 John hesitated, staring at Victor with his eyebrows drawn low over his eyes. "Oh. Well... thanks."

 "Doesn't mean I'm giving up on achieving my goal, though," Victor said, his mouth tightening faintly as his own brows drew down, his eyes shifting away from John to stare out the sitting room door through which Sherlock had disappeared. "Love is beautiful, but my inheritance is my life."

 John's jaw clenched and he gave a quick nod, acknowledging Victor's words before turning to follow Sherlock out of the flat.

 - - - - - -

 "A _four_ ," Sherlock nearly growled, jerking his Belstaff coat closed around his throat in several quick, angry movements. "I left the flat for a _four_."

 John trotted after the furiously stomping man, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. February was only half over and the air was bitingly cold. The stark street lined with flats didn't do much to cut the cold, either, all grey stone and greyer concrete underfoot. Didn't anyone know how to keep potted plants in windows anymore?

 John fell into step next to Sherlock, his breath fogging in the grey, icy air. "Well, yeah, but your other choice was to stay in the flat with Victor and his incessant singing and cleaning."

 Sherlock stopped walking abruptly and John skidded to a halt, turning back towards his Mate. Sherlock's face looked hopeless and John moved back to him quickly, drawing his hands out of his pockets to reach for Sherlock's.

 "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up," John said, instantly contrite.

 "I'm in hell. My choice is to help Lestrade with a _four_ or go back to the flat and let Victor _stare_ at me for hours on end." Sherlock's head tipped down, eyes sliding shut as he sunk properly into his misery. John glanced around quickly; they were at least two blocks away from the crime scene and he couldn't make out any of the officers standing outside the building well enough to recognize faces. Still, better safe than sorry.

 He tugged gently at Sherlock's hands, pulling the taller man into a cafe just ahead of them on the pavement to give them privacy from the gossips of The Yard. Their relationship was no secret, but the last thing they needed were whispers and knowing smiles the next time they went to help Detective Inspector Lestrade on a case.

 It was comfortably warm inside the cafe and John tugged Sherlock over to a table, shedding his jacket as soon as he could and laying it over the back of his chair.

 "Sit down. Look, we really only have two options here: either you phone Ford and tell him that we'll take the fighting ring case, or you do your best to tolerate Victor for the next three and a half weeks."

 "Both equally hateful options," Sherlock grumbled, his posture bowed and defeated where he sat across from John.

 "Yeah, but we _do_ owe Ford for getting us away from Magnussen's house before we were found. You know that _you_ , at least, would've gone to prison for a very, very long time if they'd found us there with a gun that could be linked to the bullet in Magnussen's brain. And, while the two options he's given us aren't ideal, they're a damned sight better than they _could_ have been. He's not asking us to murder anyone or do anything illegal."

 "The fighting ring is illegal," Sherlock pointed out, his eyes flicking up to John's face for a moment.

 "Yeah, okay, but that's _not_ what we're doing. We're putting up with Victor. Or do you want to beg off and switch to trying to steal the sample of the synthetic adrenaline?"

 Sherlock's entire body tightened with annoyance, his mouth drawing in and his eyes narrowing as he glared at John. "I've already _told_ you that I won't risk you in that way. I've nearly lost you three times in the past four years and I'm not interested in repeating the experience."

 "Three times?" John asked, confused.

 "I had to leave you to destroy Moriarty's web of criminals." Sherlock held up one long, slim finger, staring hard at his Mate. John nodded and Sherlock held up a second finger. "I came home, and you Mated yourself to Mary Morstan."

 "Right." John cringed slightly as he remembered how quickly and foolishly he'd jumped into _that_ bonding. And Sherlock had nearly paid for it with his life, thanks to Mary's ties to Janine Moriarty.

 Sherlock held up a third finger. "And then Moran blew a hole in the side of the flat and caused you to have amnesia for much longer than was convenient or desirable."

 John gave a snort of laughter. "Is amnesia _ever_ 'convenient or desirable'? But, yes, I see your point. All right, so getting involved in an underground Alpha fighting ring is still off the table. That leaves us a single choice: tolerate Victor."

 Sherlock sighed, leaning his elbows on the Formica-topped cafe table and burying his long fingers in his curls, gripping them tight in frustration. "I'm going to have to take up smoking again."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Wednesday. I'm so sorry; the toddler had a double ear infection which necessitated a doctor's visit, medication, and me not moving from a chair all day while she clung to me and wibbled. But at least I remembered to post the chapter before the weekend, eh?

John had to admit that Sherlock smoking again wasn't _all_ bad. Since John refused to allow it in the flat, Sherlock had taken to sitting on the fire escape outside one of the bedroom windows. He was spending hours out there every day, and since the only way to speak to him was to pass through John and Sherlock's shared bedroom, it insured that Victor wasn't able to bother Sherlock nearly as much as he had been doing.

 The next week and a half passed fairly amicably. Lestrade called Sherlock in on two more cases, both of which Sherlock ranked above a six which allowed him to entertain his mighty brain with picking out clues and unraveling the knots of mystery around the murder and the robbery.

 Victor, having cleaned the flat to the point that it smelled strongly of furniture polish and lemon-scented cleanser, had taken to creating ridiculously intricate meals twice a day. Sherlock still refused to eat anything Victor made, going so far as to actually phone for takeaway a few times despite Victor having laid out a veritable feast on the half-cleared-of-science-projects kitchen table. Sherlock still drank every cup of tea John prepared him, something John found ridiculously comforting.

 While the situation was hardly happy, it was at least peaceful enough that none of them were sniping at the others. The evenings had even become almost harmonious, John and Sherlock sitting in their armchairs while Victor reclined on the sofa across the sitting room, all of them reading quietly until John retired for the night with Sherlock trailing behind him until the twitchy Alpha felt sure that Victor was down for the night and it was safe for him to leave the bedroom and continue his experiments and research.

 Everything changed on the fourteenth day of Victor's stay, though.

 John woke to find himself alone in bed and looked immediately to the window that led out to the fire escape. He did not see Sherlock's form darkening the window in the tremulous dawn light and he stretched, yawning. Sherlock had been to St. Bart's pathology lab the day before and bullied Molly for some fingers borrowed from several corpses. It was likely he had crept out of bed the night before to indulge himself in some strange experiment or other and, if Victor had risen early enough, Sherlock would have been caught in the kitchen. While Sherlock had no issue with being rude to Victor, he had been endeavoring to keep the peace with their unwelcome flatmate for the last few weeks; he undoubtedly would have stayed in the kitchen and tried to ignore Victor if he'd been caught that morning.

 John contemplated showering and decided he wanted tea more than he wanted a hot shower. Plus, the quicker he could rescue Sherlock from Victor, the better the chances that the tenuous peace would continue. He crawled out of bed and shrugged his dressing gown over his t-shirt and pyjama pants, belting it closed as he headed for the door.

 When John opened the bedroom door to step into the hallway, though, he froze. Something was wrong. Something... he drew in a long, slow breath through his nose, trying to place what he was smelling. Was Victor cooking yet another complicated meal? If so, whatever it was couldn't possibly be going right; whatever John was smelling was both sweet and incredibly off-putting at the same time, like the flavor of straight black treacle on the tongue.

 John pulled the bedroom door shut as he moved down the hall towards the kitchen. The smell was increasing and he fought the urge to put a hand over his nose to stifle it a little. It wasn't until he stepped into the sitting room that he was able to place the scent, and then only because of what he was seeing: Victor was leaning over the back of Sherlock's armchair, his forearms resting on the chair back and his hands dangling with fingertips just brushing the tops of Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock was staring fixedly down at his laptop, his face delicately flushed over his high cheekbones and his eyes wide as he stared, unblinking, at the screen. It was similar to the look Sherlock got when John was in early Heat.

 "Jesus," John whispered as understanding swept over him. Victor was going into Heat.

 Sherlock jumped at John's voice, dragging his eyes from the screen with difficulty. Victor, however, did not break his own fascinated gaze. John realized that the other Omega was not actually reading something on Sherlock's screen; he was staring at the side of Sherlock's face with unblinking obsession.

 "John." The relief in Sherlock's voice was unmistakable, and Sherlock rose from the armchair jerkily, his usual grace washed away in the early pheromone signature of an Omega's Heat. Victor's eyes followed Sherlock as if pulled by a magnet, his tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip unconsciously.

 "Oh, you bastard," John muttered, his temper flaring as he realized Ford's game. The man truly _had_ loaded the deck in his favor, just as Sherlock had suspected.

 John stepped across the sitting room to Sherlock's side, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He kept his voice level as he spoke to his Mate. "Where's your mobile? We need to call Ford and ask him to come retrieve Victor."

 At the sound of his name, Victor blinked and his eyes slid from Sherlock to John. There was a moment's pause and then the Omega sauntered slowly over to the sofa, dropping onto it and reclining along the length of it like he thought one of the Old Masters would be doing his portrait in oils soon.

 Sherlock blinked at John, obviously having trouble understanding what the other man was saying. After a second, his face twisted in a grimace. "Oh, you mean Victor's impending Heat? I'm not worried about it."

 "You're... you..." John couldn't seem to pull the words forward, staring at Sherlock in disbelief.

 "Honestly, John, you act as if the scent of Victor's pheromones and my basic Alpha biology are going to completely overwhelm me. I've been through several of your Heats now, and I feel confident that I could easily resist your allure if I wanted to." Sherlock dropped back into his armchair, never having moved a single step away from it or even closed his laptop.

 "I think you're giving yourself too much credit," Victor murmured, his Irish brogue even more pronounced than usual, the words literally dripping with it as his heavy-lidded eyes sought out Sherlock unerringly.

 "My biology does _not_ control me." Sherlock's tone was dismissive and he locked his eyes once more onto his laptop screen, deliberately ignoring Victor where he lounged on the sofa across the sitting room.

 "Wasn't that what was happening when I walked in?" John gestured between the two men, his nostrils flaring as his temper rose. Victor was still stretched full out on the sofa, watching the exchange between Sherlock and John with interest.

 "Of course not." Sherlock snapped the words out, his expression twisting into a frown that he directed at his laptop screen, refusing to meet John's eyes. "While I will freely admit that his scent is pleasant right now, I am not undone by it. We had been discussing traditional Alpha/Omega roles and Victor was pointing out that while you have obviously never been trained to fulfill the role of an Omega, you have apparently found your way around it."  
  
"I... what?" John felt like the conversation had somehow gotten away from him. Victor seemed to take pity on him, propping his head on one fist and digging his elbow into the couch cushions as he turned his eyes away from Sherlock to speak to John.

 "Ordering takeaway." Victor's voice a little slower than it had been the day before, his words seeming to almost slide from him. The sound of them mimicked his relaxed and suggestive pose on the sofa. John hoped _he_ didn't act like this when he was in early Heat. "Neatening up around the flat. Badgering your Mate to eat occasionally."  
  
Sherlock glanced over at Victor and then down into his lap, his eyes not focusing on the laptop this time. "It... surprises me when it's brought to my attention."

 "What does?" John took a step closer to Sherlock, resting one hand lightly on the back of his armchair.

 "How much you love me." Sherlock's eyes slid up to John's face and the flush over his high cheekbones darkened delightfully, making John feel an answering warmth creeping up the skin of his throat.

 "Oh..." John shifted forward, wanting to reach for Sherlock but holding himself back. Victor was still watching them with open curiosity. Finally, though, he shook off his discomfort at having Victor watching a private moment between him and his Mate. He stepped over to stand in front of Sherlock's armchair and leaned down, resting his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and pressing a soft kiss into the riot of curls on Sherlock's crown. "Try not to forget it again."

 "Very sweet," Victor murmured, stretching luxuriously and slowly twisting onto his side to face John and Sherlock. "As much as I have always admired Sherlock's sheer bloody-mindedness, I must point out that when I go into full Heat - which _will_ happen sometime in the next 24 hours - I don't expect him to be able to resist me. Say what you want about basic biology, Sherlock, but at the end of the day, _you_ are an Alpha and _I_ am an Omega, and I will be in full Heat."

 John's hands tightened slightly where they rested on Sherlock's shoulders, not quite gripping hard enough to hurt the other man but definitely moving beyond the point of a lover's gentle touch. He wanted to shout at Victor, tell the other man that his Mate would _never_ fall into rut with another Omega... but John wasn't a fool. A Mating bond was meant to keep an Alpha and Omega together to raise their offspring; it was never meant to be something to prevent an Alpha from impregnating other Omegas when they were at their most receptive. Evolutionarily speaking, the ability to spread your genetic material far and wide would be a good thing, even if the likelihood of pregnancies coming to full term in unMated Omegas was incredibly small.

 "Sherlock." John looked down to meet Sherlock's pale blue eyes, noting that the pupils were larger than they should have been in the bright morning sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains over the sitting room windows. "You know that he's right. If you're still here when he goes into full Heat, there's no guarantee that you'll be able to resist him."

 "I'm not _interested_ in him," Sherlock protested, looking offended.

 "Doesn't matter." John brought his hands up from Sherlock's shoulders to gently cup his Mate's face, thumbs stroking along the corners of Sherlock's frowning mouth. "You're an Alpha. When Victor goes into full Heat, your hormones will push you to breed. Logic won't stop it. Reason won't stop it. If you and Victor are both in the flat during his Heat, you'll eventually cheat on me. And... I don't know if I can forgive something like that. Especially knowing that you could ring Ford _right now_ and have Victor removed."

 "And put _you_ in danger," Sherlock snapped, jerking his face to one side to dislodge John's hands. "No. Out of the question."

 "Sherlock, you aren't listening to me. If you cheat on me with Victor, I will consider it an unforgiveable offense." John went down onto his knees in front of the other man, removing the laptop from Sherlock's lap. He shut the screen and set the laptop onto the Oriental rug next to Sherlock's armchair before turning and resting his open palms on Sherlock's thighs, holding his Mate's eyes with his own. "I understand it would be biology pushing you to do it, but right here, right now, the only thing preventing you from sending temptation away is your desire to keep me safe."

 "I'm your Mate!" Sherlock's voice was frantic as he looked down into John's face, his expression pleading with John to understand. "I'm _supposed_ to keep you safe!"

 John sighed softly, hands stroking soothingly up and down Sherlock's tight thighs. "And, honestly, we'll probably both _be_ perfectly safe, all things told. A week or so in an underground fighting ring could give us a few bruises, maybe some lacerations. At the worst, we might end up with a broken bone." Sherlock grimaced, shutting his eyes as if the idea of John injured in such a way was unthinkable. John squeezed Sherlock's thighs tightly until Sherlock opened his eyes to meet John's gaze once more. "Sherlock, if you cheat on me, I will walk away. I will leave. I'd much rather have a broken bone than a broken heart."

 Sherlock's mouth opened slightly, his eyes going wide as he slowly absorbed John's serious expression and the tone of John's voice. After a second, Victor spoke from the sofa, his voice still languid despite the heated conversation in the room.

 "I'd listen to your Omega, Sherlock. He means it. If you want to keep him, you should listen to him."

 John shot Victor a single quick, thankful look and the other man nodded slowly, his expression almost dreamy. Obviously, his oncoming Heat did not affect him the way John's did. Victor looked as if he were _enjoying_ the increasing hormone levels. John generally felt as if all his senses had been turned too high and everything felt caustic to him. Regardless of how indistinct Victor looked, though, he had obviously followed the conversation and decided to weigh in on John's side.

 Sherlock glanced over at Victor before returning his gaze to John's face. Slowly, Sherlock's expression became resolute. He shifted, reaching into the hip pocket of his trousers to draw out his mobile. He dialed and raised the mobile to his ear, eyes locked on John's face. After a moment of silence, he spoke. "Ford. It's Sherlock. Take Victor home. We'll get your synthetic adrenaline."


	7. Chapter 7

Working together, John and Victor were able to get all of Victor's clothes and toiletries put back into his cases before Ford arrived at the flat an hour later. The two Omegas worked in silence, barely even glancing at one another. John was still feeling frustrated at Victor's willingness to step in and break up an established Mated pair and Victor was sinking slowly into his Heat, his movements becoming more languid and the choking, sickly-sweet scent of his hormones filling the small bedroom as the two of them worked.

 John had ordered Sherlock to stay downstairs in the kitchen, hoping that the distance would decrease the lure of Victor's scent. He still had faith in his Mate, but he didn't see the point in testing out Sherlock's willpower when Ford would be arriving to remove the temptation soon.

 As before, Ford did not bother with anything as plebian as ringing the front bell. John heard his quick footsteps coming up the stairs to the sitting room where he and Sherlock had been waiting ever since John had finished helping Victor carry his repacked cases down to the front entryway. Ford stepped into the sitting room with an expectant look on his face.

 "Giving up so soon?" Ford's eyes slid over to Sherlock where he stood a few metres behind his armchair, focusing completely on tuning his violin. John had been pacing the sitting room in impotent fury and he altered his course, striding straight for Ford with both hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

 "Neither Sherlock nor I are interested in losing our Mate for you." John stepped close to Ford, invading the taller man's personal space aggressively and unapologetically.

 "You'd hold my brother to actions beyond his control?" Ford asked, looking down at John with obvious curiosity.

 "No, but I'll hold him responsible for not getting an Omega who's going into Heat out of our flat when he can. Victor leaves _now_. You can come back once you've safely delivered him home and we can discuss the underground fighting ring you're wanting us to infiltrate."

 Ford frowned slightly, casting a quick glance at Sherlock's turned back. "Your Omega speaks for you both?"

 "He does," Sherlock confirmed, his tone mild and almost disinterested.

 Victor, having heard the voices in the sitting room, had drifted down the stairs from the bedroom above, his expression distracted as he stopped in the sitting room doorway behind Ford for a moment before his eyes were drawn to Sherlock like iron filings to a magnet. John turned his head slightly to glance over at Sherlock. He was pleased to see his Mate was still tuning his violin, barely even glancing up to acknowledge Victor despite the waves of sickly-sweet Omega hormones slowly filtering into the sitting room.

 "Thank you for visiting, Victor. I hope you'll be able to find a willing Alpha soon," Sherlock murmured, his eyes fixed firmly on the sitting room table as he plucked gently at a string on the violin, tilting his head to listen to the resulting note.

 Victor nodded absentmindedly before turning and heading down the stairs to the entryway to gather his cases.

 "Interesting," Ford murmured, eyes sliding up and down John as if assessing him. "You don't act like any Omega I've ever known."  
  
"I'm _not_ like any Omega you've ever known." John's voice was low and dangerous, an unhappy smile twisting his lips upwards as he glared up at the eldest Holmes brother. He knew challenging Ford like this was foolish; he'd heard Sherlock's stories of growing up with Ford for an older brother, and age did not appear to have mellowed the other man at all. But, Ford had put an Omega who had been only days away from Heat into their flat, knowing Sherlock and John were Mated. John could not back down from that. "Ford, just in case it hasn't been made abundantly clear to you by now: Sherlock is _my_ Mate. I will not share him. I will not let someone else hurt him. I will protect him with my life, if necessary, even if it means going up against his older brothers who are - as near as I can tell - two of the most dangerous people I've ever met. With that in mind, I want to make it clear right now: once we get the synthetic adrenaline for you, we're even. You won't owe us anything else, and we won't owe _you_ anything else. Agreed?"

 Ford raised his eyebrows, a smile slowly stretching across his face as he stared at John. Finally, he nodded slowly. "All right, John. Once you give me the synthetic adrenaline, I will fade from your life as if I'd never been here. Your debt to me will have been paid in full."

 "Time to go." Sherlock stepped up next to his brother, moving silently enough that he surprised his Mate. While John and Ford had been talking, he'd finished tuning his violin and was now standing with empty hands, his posture speaking of his desire to throw his eldest brother bodily from the flat. Ford glanced at Sherlock, taking in the younger man's stance and his smile grew and sharpened.

 "I may show up to make wagers on your fights," Ford confessed, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he appraised his younger brother. "With your Omega there to inspire you, you'll be unbeatable."

 Sherlock's nostrils flared and John reached out, laying a quelling hand on the taller man's forearm. He could feel the taut, quivering muscles beneath the thin layer of cotton sleeve, and it made him nervous; he'd rarely seen Sherlock pushed so close to the edge before. "Phone before you come back," John advised, and Ford chuckled to himself as he turned and left the flat, pulling the sitting room door shut behind him.

 Sherlock stayed still, glaring at the closed door as if he could still see his brother on the other side of it. John tightened is grip lightly on Sherlock's arm, squeezing the tight muscles through the smoothness of Sherlock's sleeve, keeping the pressure on until Sherlock finally turned away from the closed sitting room door to look at John, his expression one part annoyed and one part questioning.

 "It's not doing any good for you to try and glare a hole through the door," John pointed out, gentling his touch on Sherlock's arm from a squeeze to a soft petting. "Ford won't see it anyway."

 Sherlock sighed, shoulders slumping as he stepped away from John to the other side of the sitting room, bending to lift his violin from its case. He immediately set to playing an angry, sharp melody and John cringed; waiting for Ford to come back was going to be intolerable.

 "I'll just pop down to Speedy's." John had to shout to be heard over the violin. He opened the sitting room door, glancing back. "I'll get you your favorite, shall I?"

 "Not hungry." Sherlock punctuated the statement by drawing the bow roughly across the strings, producing a cacophonous screech.

 "Yeah, well, if you're going to be fighting other Alphas in the next week, I want you to eat whether you're hungry or not. I'll be back in a minute." John pulled the sitting room door shut behind him to cut off any more protests. The shriek of the violin was audible even through the closed door and John pressed his lips together tightly before heaving a sigh and trudging downstairs.

 He lingered in Speedy's Cafe longer than absolutely necessary, dithering over the limited choices and letting other early-morning patrons jump in front of him in the queue. He was able to waste nearly a half-hour staring at the bags of crisps behind the counter, letting his mind wander. When his mobile finally buzzed in the pocket of his denims, vibrating against the tense muscle in his thigh, he sighed unhappily. A quick glance at the screen told him all he needed to know.

  _Victor is comfortably settled. Heading back. Ten minutes. -FH_

John shoved the mobile back into his pocket and ordered, fingers tapping out a nervous pattern on his leg as he waited for the food to be prepared. He would be cutting it close if he wanted to beat Ford back to the flat, even considering that Speedy's Cafe was literally next door to 221.

 With crinkling plastic bags dangling from his hands, John hurried up the stairs to 221B. Sherlock's violin was no longer screeching through an angry musical tirade; his Mate had settled on something melodic and actually pleasant. Hopefully, the calmer music matched the landscape of Sherlock's mind.

 John went straight through to the kitchen, depositing the bags next to Sherlock's microscope and two racks of beakers, calling back into the sitting room, "Ford texted; he'll be here in just a minute."

 The music didn't even pause. John watched his Mate for a moment; anyone who didn't know Sherlock would have thought the man was utterly at peace. John, though, could see that Sherlock was anything but peaceful. He did not sway to his playing, holding himself utterly still except for the movement of his arms. His eyes were shut tightly not to ride on the music but to close himself off from some of the ceaseless outside stimulation. His chest rose and fell just slightly too quickly for calm breathing, straining at the buttons of his black shirt with each deep breath.

 When the sitting room door opened a moment later, it was no surprise to John that Sherlock tossed his violin and bow violently down to the sofa as he strode across the room, moving past where Ford stood in the open sitting room door and snatching one of the plastic takeaway bags off the table. He riffled through it a moment before pulling out a crisps bag and ripping it open. He shoved several into his mouth, eyes locked on the top of the kitchen table, obviously ignoring Ford behind him.

 John cleared his throat, stepping slowly past Sherlock to move to the eldest Holmes brother where he waited in the sitting room, a very faint smile twitching at the corners of his lips.

 "All right. So... what can you tell us about what we'll be doing?" John asked.

 Ford's gaze sharpened minutely as he focused on John, looking the shorter man up and down thoughtfully. Sherlock had turned away from the half-eaten bag of crisps, unable to stop himself from being curious in hearing the new situation's details.

 "Well," Ford said, his eyes sliding over to his youngest brother and then back to John, pausing to run his hands lightly down the front of his dark blue bespoke suit jacket. "Honestly, _you_ shouldn't have to do much. It will be Sherlock fighting. It's been years since I've seen him in action. Perhaps..."

 Ford trailed off, shooting another glance at Sherlock. Then he pulled back his arm, his face going cold and empty, and threw a punch at John's face.

 John barely had time to register the incoming threat before he heard the fist striking flesh. He cringed, expecting a wave of pain, and then blinked when he didn't feel anything except a surge of surprised adrenaline in his belly. He realized that Sherlock had crossed almost two metres in seconds and now stood just behind John, both hands wrapped firmly and unbreakably around Ford's fist.

 "Beautiful," Ford said, his voice breathless. His smile grew razor-sharp as he looked at his captured fist and then up at his brother's face. "You're going to be _amazing._ "

 "You _bastard!"_ John snarled, stepping close enough to Ford that he could glare at the taller man from bare centimetres away. "If you ever, _ever_ try to sucker punch me again, I will take you apart by inches and enjoy every screaming second of it."

 John spun away from Ford, nostrils flaring with his furious breaths. Sherlock still held Ford's fist in both his large hands, squeezing down with slightly more force than was necessary as he stared with narrowed eyes at his brother's face, chest heaving with his sharp, angry breaths. John had seen that look in Sherlock's face before. He had seen it when CIA thugs had threatened Mrs. Hudson and he had seen it when Sebastian Moran had tried to beat John to death in the hallway of 221B. The look promised pain and possible death. At the moment, John would have happily assisted Sherlock in delivering both to Sherrinford Holmes.

 "May I have my hand back, brother?" Ford's tone was civil and subtly tinged with pain, the corners of his eyes crinkling faintly as he squinted at the squeeze of Sherlock's hands around his fist.

 "Will you be throwing punches at my Mate again?" Sherlock asked, his voice very low and dark.

 "No. I wanted a demonstration and -" Ford broke off, wincing slightly before blowing out a soft breath. Sherlock's knuckles were blanched white with the force of his grip on Ford's fist. "And I got exactly what I wanted."

 Sherlock finally released Ford's hand, turning away negligently to retrieve his bag of crisps from where it had hit the kitchen floor. He shoved one into his mouth, chewing angrily as he kept a watchful eye on Ford.

 Ford shook his hand slightly, opening and closing his fingers repetitively as he worked feeling back into them. Despite his obviously aching hand, though, Ford was smiling as he glanced between John and Sherlock.

 "I wanted to be sure that you still had all the explosive speed and strength I remembered from your childhood. You always impressed me with how well you could hold your own in a fight back then; it speaks well for this endeavor that you have lost none of it." Ford crossed to Sherlock's black leather armchair, dropping into it and spreading out, comfortable and lazy. "You _will_ have to fight. There is no chance of you sneaking in and figuring out the layout of the building quickly enough to retrieve the adrenaline and avoid detection. While you are staying there, you'll have ample opportunity to memorize the layout."

 "Wait, _staying_ there?" John was still breathing a little too quickly and his hands kept clenching and unclenching as he fought his desire to throw a punch at Ford, but he was holding himself together enough to follow Ford's words.

 "As I understand, every Alpha who joins the fighting ring signs a contract for thirty fights. If the Alpha is able to win thirty different fights, they are given 30% of the winnings from _all_ their fights and sent on their way with the threat of death should they ever mention the fighting ring."

 "What about the ones who don't win thirty fights?" John asked.

 "Three failed fights and they're executed in the fighting ring." Ford raised his eyebrows at John and gave him a small smile. "Ghastly, isn't it?"

 John's jaw clenched hard enough to creak and he was incapable of responding around his desire to give Ford the same sucker punch that Ford had tried to land on him. Thankfully, Sherlock was crumpling his empty crisps bag, tossing it onto the table before heading over to stand beside John's armchair, his face expressionless.

 "I am guessing you don't expect John and I to stay there throughout the duration of the contract."

 "Of course not." Ford shifted to reach into the hip pocket of his trousers. He pulled out a tiny black bead. It looked as if it were made of some kind of rubber, the surface matte and almost powdery looking. "This is your panic button. You need only give it a squeeze and I'll come running to get you out. Well, not _me_ , but my trained men in my employ."

 Sherlock leaned out, holding one hand out towards Ford. The black rubber bead was transferred over and quickly disappeared into Sherlock's hip pocket. "Will John be expected to fight?"

 "Not if he's exposed as a Mated Omega," Ford said, frowning. "They wouldn't expect an Omega to be _able_ to fight. Not many Omegas are like our John."

 "He's not yours." The words were sharp and spoken almost in a snarl, Sherlock leaning forward over the back of John's armchair to glare at Ford, his fingers tightening into the chair back with enough force to blanch his fingertips.

 "My apologies." Ford spoke quickly to diffuse his brother's riding anger, threading his fingers together to rest on top of his crossed legs, his posture one of boredom. " _Your_ John."

 John stepped up next to Sherlock, resting a soothing hand on the Alpha's lower back. Sherlock had been explosive the last few weeks. John was beginning to worry about the man's mental state; as annoying as having Vincent in the flat was, Sherlock was not typically this quick to anger. It made him wonder at Sherlock's state of mind going into an undercover operation that could be very dangerous for both of them.

 Sherlock released the back of the chair, standing up straight as John's soothing hand rubbed lightly back and forth across his lower back, but Sherlock's eyes stayed locked warily on Ford.

 "All right," John said. "I won't be fighting. So, I'll just be there to inspire my Mate to Alpha-y displays of violence?"

 "I think he'll find you very inspirational," Ford agreed, drawing his mobile out of a pocket and tapping at the screen. "The next fight that I'm aware of is being held at this address in one week - I'm sending the particulars to your mobiles. You won't be fighting the first night; you'll be there to watch the fights and get a feel for how the organization that runs the ring works. That will also be your cover story the first night: you've heard of the fights and heard they pay well, but you want to see if they're worth the effort of getting involved, worried about the monetary return... all that nonsense." Ford finished his message and dropped the mobile into his lap, smiling up at John and Sherlock.

 "That address isn't where the synthetic adrenaline is being kept, though, is it?" Sherlock asked.

 "Of course not." Ford gave a quick laugh at the idea. "The fights move from night to night. The Alphas are transported from a holding area to the fight locations. In between fights, I expect you to find your way to the adrenaline."

 "Will I be expected to sign a contract with the ring tomorrow night?" Sherlock asked. John tensed, his rubbing hand going still against Sherlock's back.

 Ford smiled coolly, staring at his brother. " Of course. And don't forget to take your panic button along; I'd hate for something terrible to happen to you, baby brother."


	8. Chapter 8

"This is fine." Sherlock had leaned forward to speak to the cabbie over the back of the seat, his voice low. "Pull over here."

 John took in a quick breath, clenching his hands into fists in his lap. The warehouse in which the underground Alpha fights were being held that evening was still a couple of blocks ahead of them. Was there something Sherlock had thought of that he needed to tell John? Over the last week, they'd gone over every possible variation of tonight, John thought. Of course, Sherlock's intelligence was incomparable and it was likely he'd thought of something else he wanted to explain to John before they went directly into the belly of the beast.

 The cab slid smoothly to the kerb and Sherlock leaned forward, handing the payment to the cabbie before leaping from the cab to pace the pavement in long strides, waiting for John to join him outside the cab.

 Once they were both on the pavement, Sherlock tugged at the sleeves of his button-up shirt, frowning slightly. It was still quite cool at night, March only having just started the day before. Sherlock had thought that his long Belstaff coat would be too eye-catching to bring with them, though, and had opted for just a button-up and trousers. John shoved his hands into the pockets of his own black coat, fighting off a smile. He'd told Sherlock that he needed _some_ jacket, but the mad idiot had insisted he would be fine. He was probably regretting that now.

 "All right, John, we don't know what sort of people are running these fights, but I feel it's safe to assume that they aren't a good sort." Sherlock paused, glancing down the block towards the warehouse at which Ford had said the next fight would be held. He also rubbed his hands briskly up and down his biceps, obviously feeling the chill in the evening air. "I'm going to request that you let me do most of the talking; I'll be the one doing the fighting eventually, and there are things that I'll need to know to increase my chances of winning. For this evening, let's try to keep it as low-key as possible."

"Agreed. Anything else, or can we head for the warehouse before you start turning blue?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock waved one graceful hand at John's words, but he started forward along the pavement at a brisk pace. John had to jog to catch up to the longer-legged man, but he fell into step with Sherlock quickly and they headed toward the warehouse with only their puffing breath to break the silence.

The fight organizers had obviously chosen this warehouse based on how decrepit the surrounding area was. All the buildings John and Sherlock were passing were either boarded up or closed for the night with heavy bars over the doors and windows. There was no foot traffic that John could see, not even the typically furtive kind that one saw in the worst parts of London. The pavement was more holes and broken bits than solid slab, and John stubbed the toes of his shoes multiple times as he hurried to keep up with Sherlock.

The only things that made their destination stand out from the other buildings along the block were its size and the single light bulb burning over a door around the side of the building. It was to that door that Sherlock moved, confident of his destination.

As Sherlock raised one fist to knock, John found himself wishing he'd been able to bring his gun along. It wouldn't have stayed safely tucked into the waistband of his trousers once they signed on to the fights, he was sure, but he was missing it badly at the moment. They were definitely walking into a dangerous situation, and they were doing it unarmed except for their wits and one small panic button that suddenly seemed like not nearly enough now that they were approaching the fights.

The door opened after Sherlock pounded on it and a narrow-eyed, heavy-jawed man glared out at them. He glanced over Sherlock's clothes and his eyes narrowed even more. From inside the warehouse came a sudden raucous, excited shouting and John shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, glancing around the deserted neighborhood.

"I was told tonight was a good night." Sherlock's voice was low and conversational as he repeated the words Ford had texted to him. "Are the dogs on?"

The man snuffled quietly, reaching up to rub at his jaw with one calloused, dirty hand. "It's fifty to get in. Fifty _each_ ," and his eyes slid to John standing just behind Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't hesitate, having been warned by Ford that the fights charged at the door to even get in, fishing the money out of his trouser pocket and passing the money over to the door guard. After pocketing it, the man stepped back and waved them through.

The sound of cheering rose up as the door guard shut the warehouse door behind John, turning to lean his considerable bulk against it as he watched John and Sherlock enter the warehouse proper.

There were several large wooden crates stacked together, creating a narrow hallway into the interior of the warehouse. Sherlock moved through it confidently, but John felt panic rising in him as he suddenly flashed back to the last time he'd been in a warehouse full of forgotten boxes. He'd come out of the constricted passage between the crates to find Sherlock handcuffed and hanging from chains, being beaten nearly to death by Janine Hawkins' hired man. He could not stop the tremor in his left hand, but he moved up behind Sherlock, walking close enough that he could smell his Mate's shampoo and the new bar soap he'd switched to in the last month. It helped press back the memories a bit.

As they came out of the tight path between the boxes, John's eyes went wide. There was a literal cage in the center of the warehouse. From the looks of it, the fighting cage was a large dog run, but not nearly large enough to comfortably house the two men grappling within it. There was a crowd of roughly fifty men around the cage, watching the fight in near silence. Suddenly, one of the men managed to throw the other one to the ground, stomping a foot down on the back of his neck violently. The crowd erupted in cheers and jeers and John grimaced as he thought of all the delicate structures in the neck that a stomping foot could destroy.

Sherlock stopped, watching as several men moved to the cage and opened the door, holding out what looked like Tasers. The man on the ground was trying to push back up to his feet, but he kept collapsing back onto his chest on the hard concrete floor. One of the men holding a Taser moved close to the fighter still on his feet, holding the weapon up. The man responded by holding his hands up non-threateningly, backing into one corner of the dog run. The other two men with Tasers stopped next to the downed fighter who was still trying to get his knees under him. Moving almost in synchrony, they leaned down and pressed the Tasers to the man. There was a horrible gagging, keening sound and then the man lay still. He was dragged from the cage by his ankles by the two men who had just Tased him, arms trailing limply behind him as his back and head scraped across the concrete.

"Win to Marcus," someone called out, their voice carrying through the warehouse. "Second loss to Barney."

"Jesus," John whispered, watching the last Taser-holding man herding the winner out of the cage. He hurried to keep up as Sherlock started moving again, wending around the chattering groups of men and heading towards a skeletally-thin man standing apart from the crowd, watching everything with a faint smile. He looked utterly at ease and much more confident than any of the workaday men circling the cage. His pale blond hair had the look of an expensive barber and his suit obviously cost more than John could have afforded even if he applied his entire month's cheque from the clinic towards buying it.

The man looked up as John and Sherlock came close. Instantly, two heavily-muscled men stepped in front of the thin man, their expressions blank and yet somehow conveying a message of intended bodily harm should John and Sherlock move any closer.

"Am I correct in guessing that this show is your doing?" Sherlock asked, looking dismissively past the guards at the man behind them.

"Here to complain about your losses? You're warned at the beginning of each fight night: all bets are final." The man's voice was dry and slightly raspy, the voice of someone who regularly took heavy pain medication. John wondered if the man had some sort of degenerative disease that caused his emaciation or if his emaciation was due to an addiction to drugs of some sort.

"No, I'm interested in signing on as one of your fighters," Sherlock said, a faint smile lifting his lips.

"We only take Alphas." The man waved a hand dismissively and the two thugs moved forward. Sherlock spoke quickly to recapture the thin man's attention.

"And I am an Alpha. I'm also interested in accruing more money to fund my... interests."

The thin man stepped forward with an thoughtful expression, his tongue flicking out to wet his thin lips as his guards parted to allow him through. He looked Sherlock up and down slowly, his dark eyes thoughtful. "A bit posh to be a fighter."

"Don't let my clothing deceive you." Sherlock ran a palm over the opposite silk-clothed forearm. "I'm an accomplished fighter."

"Well, that remains to be seen, Mr...?"

"Hope." The name rolled off Sherlock's tongue without a flicker of hesitation, his hands dropping to his sides as he met the other man's eyes. "Scott Hope."

"Mr. Hope, so nice to meet you. You'll forgive me for not shaking your hand; I don't like to touch strangers." The thin man glanced behind Sherlock, taking in John with a quick sweep of his dark eyes and a slight grimace on his skeletal face. "And your... friend?"

"My Omega," Sherlock corrected, glancing over his shoulder. The flash of Sherlock's pale eyes and the brief glimpse of the side of his face was oddly comforting, but John did not let himself relax; they were not in a place safe enough for him to come down from full alert.

"Bonded?"

"Yes, for nearly a year."

"Hmm." The man's eyes brightened as he looked John up and down once more, obviously wondering if he'd missed something on his first glance over. John fought the urge to stand at attention as the man's eyes slid over him. If he was meant to look like a typical, shrinking violet Omega, he needed to avoid eye contact and look as unthreatening as possible. Judging from the way the man's eyes slid off of him after only a few seconds, it was obvious that John had succeeded in looking utterly uninteresting. "Well, you can certainly keep him with you if you _do_ sign on to fight; I'd never think of separating a bonded pair." The man turned away from his contemplation of John, smiling thinly at Sherlock. "Please, enjoy the fights for the rest of the evening. My men will find you and your Mate at the end of the evening."

And with that, he turned away from John and Sherlock to watch as the next pair of Alpha fighters were herded into the dog run by large, heavily muscled men with Tasers. John was beginning to think that the guards were matched sets that the skeletally-thin organizer had special ordered; they all had the look of machine-stamped dolls. The only difference from man to man was hair and eye-color; otherwise, they were nearly identical in their bulked appearance and blank expressions.

"John." Sherlock's voice was soft as he spoke, nudging John's shoulder as he walked away from the man in charge and his two bodyguards and into the crowd around the dog run. John hurried after him, the two of them coming to a stop at the front of the crowd as the two men in the cage began swinging punches at one another.

"Well?" John asked, his voice low. The crowd was watching the fighting with near-silent intensity, only cheering when one the Alphas was knocked to the cement floor.

"The introductions are out of the way," Sherlock murmured, leaning closer to John to avoid being overheard, his lips brushing the shell of John's ear. "By tomorrow, we'll probably have signed away our freedom. Just stay close to me, no matter what happens, and we'll figure this out."

Sherlock straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back as he seemed to focus on the fight in front of them. The men were both tall and well-muscled in a lean, fit-but-not-gym-obsessed way; they could have been twins except one had dark hair and skin and the other was nearly pale enough to be an albino. They both fought viciously, trying to deal the maximum damage to their opponent while also attempting to guard themselves from injury.

John pressed his lips tightly, not enjoying watching two grown men attempting to kill each other for nothing more than to entertain the crowd around them. It felt a little too 'Roman gladiatorial' for John. The doctor in him catalogued each injury as it was dealt, his frown deepening. The soldier in him picked out the weak spots each combatant left open, noting ways to end the fight instantly.

The dark-haired man got in a good kick to his opponent's side, driving the man into the chain-link of the cage. While the pale man was still trying to catch his breath from the kick, the dark-haired man rushed forward, delivering two strong punches to the other man's kidneys and causing him to drop to his knees. Taking advantage of the paler man's weakness, the dark-haired man threw a hard kick into his opponent's temple, toppling him to the cement floor to the cheers of the spectators. There was a moment's pause as the dark-haired man watched his downed opponent, obviously waiting for him to get up, but the paler man wasn't moving.

"Third time! Third time for Colin!" a voice shouted over the excited roar of the crowd. Instantly, the men around John and Sherlock began crowding forward, their cheers becoming almost frantic.

 "What the hell does that mean, 'third time'?" John shouted, leaning close to Sherlock. His Mate shook his head, eyes narrowing. The pale man wasn't attempting to get up although John could see his eyes were open; he seemed happy to continue wheezing on the cement floor. The dark-haired man had moved away from his opponent, his face twisting with some strong emotion that John couldn't name. One of the guards who'd dragged the loser out of the cage in the earlier fight moved up to the side of cage, but he wasn't holding a Taser this time. He aimed a handgun into the cage and the crowd went silent, watching with breathless anticipation.

 "Five," the man holding the gun called. "Four. Three."

 "Jesus," John whispered, clenching his hands into fists. The meaning was clear: either the pale man got up or he would be shot.

 "Two. One." The report of the gun firing was nearly drowned out by the ecstatic screams of the watching crowd. The pale man jerked as the bullet entered his head and then lay still.

 "They shot him." John's words were a disbelieving whisper. "Jesus, Sherlock -"

 "'Third time.' Ford said that fighters only get three losses before they're executed." Sherlock's voice was blank, the emotion knocked out of him by what they had just witnessed.

 John pressed his lips together tightly. Suddenly, he wished that they were here to destroy the whole organization and not just to steal synthetic adrenaline. Even if every single Alpha in the ring _had_ signed on, no one deserved to be gunned down in a chain link dog run after being beaten into an insensate mass.

 The next fight went much the same as the first one John and Sherlock had seen: two Alphas were put into the cage and they fought until one couldn't rise to continue. The loser was Tased and dragged from the cage and the winner was marched out, but both were taken across the warehouse to a heavy metal door that presumably led outside, judging from the flash of darkness that John could make out when the door was dragged open. John had no idea where they went from there, but he supposed he'd know by the end of the night.

 John had grown weary of the sound of fists hitting flesh and the grunts and groans of pain from the combatants by the time someone shouted, "Main event fight!"

 The crowd shuffled around, everyone trying to get a better vantage point. John stiffened as he saw the two Alphas who were shoved into the cage. The first was a tall, wiry man with a bald head and swirling tattoos down both forearms, a cocky smile on his face. The second was a thin, wiry, freckle-faced, red-haired woman.

 "Sherlock -" he began, but Sherlock hushed him, eyes keen as the fight began.

 It was obvious from the first minute that the two were evenly matched. Few of their blows landed, both of them ducking and dodging beautifully. It was like watching a choreographed dance. John could see why they were the main event.

 Then the woman got in a lucky punch to her opponent's jaw, obviously ringing his bell. He stumbled away, both hands coming up to his temples as he struggled to regain his equilibrium. She took advantage of his disorientation, moving forward and kicking her heel into his solar plexus. He stumbled back, making a wheezing sound as she followed after him, throwing punches almost too quickly for John's eyes to follow. Within seconds, the man was on his hands and knees, fighting to keep from falling to his belly on the blood-spattered concrete floor. But the woman stepped forward calmly, grasping his head in her hands before bringing her knee up into his face. He collapsed heavily onto the floor, bleeding from his nose and mouth, his breath bubbling through the mess his face had become. There was no hint of the cocky smile he'd worn when he stepped into the cage.

 "First loss for Daniel!" a voice called out as the guards moved forward with Tasers at the ready to claim the fighters.

 "Never underestimate your opponent because of their primary gender," Sherlock murmured, pressing his palm flat against John's lower back as he leaned close to the shorter man. "She was a much stronger Alpha than he was."

 "How did you -?"

 "The way she held herself when she stepped into the cage. She was looking for openings and weaknesses before the fight had even begun, and she stood as if winning was the expected outcome. He went in to the fight planning to show off how good he was. She went in _knowing_ she would be winning."

 The men with the Tasers were moving the fighters out of the cage and the crowd was breaking up, moving towards the far side of the warehouse where several men were setting up large moneyboxes at long folding tables. Obviously, it was time for the spectators to claim their winnings on that evening's fights.

 "Mr. Hope?"

 Sherlock turned, glancing at one of the heavily-muscled guards that had blocked him from reaching the fight coordinator earlier.

 "Ah. Time to go, John." Sherlock nodded at the bodyguard, reaching out to rest his palm flat against the back of John's jumper, gently urging him forward. "It's time to negotiate our contract."

 


	9. Chapter 9

"Mr. Hope, so good to see you again. I trust you found the fights interesting?"

 John shifted uncomfortably, clasping his hands in front of his pelvis as he tried to keep his eyes on both the skeletally thin man sitting behind the folding table in front of them and also on the men collecting their winnings from the other folding tables off to his right. Sherlock stood in a relaxed and dismissive pose, leaning one slim hip against the lip of the table as he gave the thin man a knowing smile.

 "I found them informative. I believe I'll be able to easily walk away with a large cash bonus."

 The thin man laughed, slapping his palms down onto the white plastic top of the table with a hollow thump. "I like your confidence, Mr. Hope. My name is Thomas Littleton, and this is my business." Littleton spread his hands to encompass the dog run, the men collecting their winnings, and John and Sherlock. "I arrange these fights every other night in ever-changing locations. My fighters are always Alphas looking to make a little extra money, and we pay very well: at the completion of your 30-fight contract, you receive 30% of all of your winnings throughout the course of your fights. If you are a good fighter, men bet more on you, win more on you, and you see those winnings trickle down to you."

"And the losers?" John asked, and Sherlock shot him a narrow-eyed look. John pressed his lips, dropping his eyes down to stare at his own shoes. He had forgotten that he was supposed to be a quiet Omega, not a confident ex-Army doctor.

 "Your Omega asks the important question, Mr. Hope." Littleton flipped his hands palm up and spread them wide, a smile stretching across his face. "You are only allowed three losses before you are removed from the fights in a very final way. As long as you are under contract with me, I _own_ you. Should you fail to deliver exciting and interesting fights for my guests, I can choose to have to eliminated."

 "I won't be losing, though," Sherlock said, slowly turning away from John to smile at Littleton.

 "I like confidence in my fighters." Littleton's smile widened, exposing large teeth under his thin lips. "I just need to draw a sample of your blood to prove that you _are_ actually an Alpha and then we can continue with your contract."

 "Blood?" Sherlock asked, raising one imperious eyebrow and tipping his head back slightly to look down his nose at Littleton.

 "Believe it or not, in the early days of my business endeavor, I had a few Betas try to sneak in. Pitting a Beta against an Alpha in a fight driven by adrenaline is a fool's errand; Alphas, as you know, have the lion's share of that particular hormone."

 John snorted softly; it was true that Alphas tended to have larger adrenal glands due to the evolutionary need to protect their Omega mates and offspring from other Alphas, but the difference wasn't as pronounced as Littleton was making it sound. He'd served with almost nothing but Betas in the British Army and he would happily swear on a stack of Bibles that they were as capable and determined in a fight as any of the Alphas that he'd met in his life.

 Thankfully, neither Littleton nor his bodyguards heard John's soft, derisive snort. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Sherlock stiffening slightly, but the other man did not give any other indication that he'd heard John.

 "I'm Alpha through-and-through." Sherlock unbuttoned one cuff of his silk shirt and rolled the sleeve up to expose his lean forearm.

 "Hmm." Littleton leaned forward over the table to examine Sherlock's bare arm, his eyes narrowing slightly. John knew what the man was seeing: track marks from dozens of injections of cooked heroin, a tribute to the troubled years before Sherlock had found both consulting detective work and John. "We don't allow drug use in our fighters, Mr. Hope."

 "I haven't used in years," Sherlock said truthfully.

 "Good." Littleton leaned back and nodded to one of his bodyguards. The man stepped forward with a small black leather case in his hands. He set it on the table and unzipped it, taking out a fresh pair of Nitrile gloves and opening a packet for a new syringe. Off Sherlock's doubtful look, Littleton gave a faint smile and said, "He's quite competent. Don't worry, Mr. Hope; this will be practically painless."  
  
Sherlock gave the hugely muscled bodyguard a doubtful look but didn't pull away when the man reached for his arm with his Nitrile-covered hands. He drew Sherlock's blood with the efficiency of someone used to the job, belaying his 'gym rat' appearance. The bodyguard/phlebotomist capped the syringe and replaced both it and the bundled up gloves into the case before zipping it shut and walking towards the other side of the warehouse. He exited through the door out of which John had seen the fighters being taken earlier; whatever was out there, it was the main operating base for the fighting ring.

 "Let's talk particulars, Mr. Hope." Littleton sat up straight and folded his hands together on the top of the table, his thin, pale fingers looking like bones against the white tabletop. "When you sign with me, you sign for 30 fights. The fighting ring is held every other night, as I said, although you will not be expected to fight that frequently. I currently have thirty-four fighters in my employ, and we hold five fights each night that a fighting ring is organized. This means you'll be expected to fight at least one fight per week, and sometimes you may have to perform on two fight nights in a row. The payoff at the end is worth it, though."

 "Oh, I'm certain it will be." Sherlock smiled faintly at Littleton and John ducked his head again, pursing his lips to hide the knowing smile that wanted to spread across his face.

 "You might find having your Omega watching the fights inspires you." Littleton nodded towards John, his eyes steady on Sherlock. "We had one other Mated Alpha in the fights a year ago and she went away with a very, _very_ sizeable payoff at the end. Secured her financial future and made it possible for her to begin breeding her Omega."

 "That's exactly why I brought him: to inspire me." Sherlock kept his eyes locked on Littleton, judging the man's expression to see how much Littleton believed.

 The heavy metal door on the other side of the warehouse creaked open and the over-muscled bodyguard who had drawn Sherlock's blood walked back through, nodding his head at Littleton even as the door was slowly easing shut behind him.

 "Confirmed Alpha. We can fill out the paperwork now." Littleton's eyes brightened as he produced a briefcase from beneath the folding table and laid it on the table beside his elbow.

 The next few minutes dragged by in murmured explanations and the soft scratching of a pen as Sherlock wrote 'Scott Hope' over and over on the documents that Littleton kept pushing towards him. By the time Littleton took the stack of signed papers and returned them to his briefcase, the spectators had all finally wandered out of the warehouse and the men who'd been passing out winnings were folding up their tables and dragging them towards the same exit door through which the fighting Alphas and their handlers had disappeared earlier in the evening.

 "Wonderful. Now, since I basically _own_ you for the next few months, I can't have you wandering around the city and endangering my assets. Therefore, between fights you and your Omega will be kept in a secure holding facility which I own." Littleton gave a brief nod and the bodyguards surged forward, one grabbing both of Sherlock's biceps and one laying a bored but implacable hand between John's shoulder blades.

 It took everything in John not to respond to the little shove the bodyguard gave him to encourage him forward. He glanced over at Sherlock, watching as the man's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared at the hands gripping his arms. Sherlock did not fight, though, merely tipping his head back to look down his nose at Littleton once more.

 "I _do_ know how to walk." Sherlock glanced pointedly at the heavy hands wrapped around his biceps. "An escort would be sufficient."

 "We have a way of doing things that works for us, Mr. Hope. We won't be changing things just because someone assures us that they'll cooperate." Littleton rose slowly from the folding chair behind the table, wincing as he pressed his thin fingers to the edge of the table to steady himself as he got to his feet. "I'll be seeing you again soon."

 Sherlock's bodyguard shoved him forward, making the tall man stumble at the abruptness of the move. John followed automatically, his bodyguard keeping one too-warm hand between John's shoulder blades to keep him moving forward.

 John was unsurprised to find several large, windowless cargo vans parked on a gravel parking lot on the other side of the door through which Littleton's employees had been disappearing all evening. There weren't any lights at the back of the warehouse and the moon struggled to make up the difference, casting a pale blue glow over everything.

 "Two more," the bodyguard frog-marching Sherlock called, and a man standing outside the open driver's side door of one van turned around, his heavy eyebrows lowering as he caught sight of Sherlock and John as they were marched over, gravel crunching and scattering under their shoes. The man had been writing something on a clipboard in the dim glow from the driver's compartment, although that was all the detail John could see. Thanks to the light being _behind_ the man, he was a dark silhouette to John's eyes.

 "Are you kidding me? Like we have room for two more in there. Did you _see_ how packed it was on the way here?" The driver tossed his clipboard onto the driver's seat angrily, the pages fluttering loudly as it settled.

 "Yeah, but we had one shot tonight," the bodyguard pointed out. "Put that body in with the folding tables and tell everyone else to budge up. These are a _Mated pair_." He put extra emphasis on the words, and John felt sure that if he'd been able to see the bodyguard's expression, the man would've been pulling a lewd and suggestive face. "They can share a seat. The little Omega bitch can sit on his Mate's lap."

 John's nostrils flared and he lowered his face quickly, afraid that someone would see the murder in his eyes. As long as he could pretend to be a submissive Omega, the guards would underestimate him. That could give him and Sherlock an advantage later, so John would preserve it if he could.

 "All right, all right." The driver threw his hands up in obvious frustration, turning away from the bodyguards and their prisoners. "Is this it, though? No more after these two?"

 "Naw, they've cleared out in there," the bodyguard said. "Just these two."

 "Fine. I'll grab some zip ties." The driver kicked through the gravel on his way back to the front of the van, shoving the clipboard off the seat and digging around before coming up with four long plastic strips.

 Once John and Sherlock's wrists and ankles were secured with the zip ties, they were dragged to the back of the van, their bound feet leaving divots in the gravel. The driver had brought over a Taser while the bodyguards had been tightening the zip ties and he showed it to Sherlock as the bodyguard behind John made sure his charge was standing on his own before he moved over to open the back doors of the van.

 "Try anything," the driver said, shaking the Taser, "and I'll fry your Omega bitch."

 Sherlock's face went dangerously blank and John blew out a long, slow breath as he watched his Mate for any sign that he was about to snap. Sherlock had been on the edge recently, and John felt a nervous flutter in his belly. Was Sherlock about to ruin everything?

 And then the double doors at the back of the van were open and the bodyguard that had been maneuvering John reached in, giving several heavy grunts as he slowly dragged a limp, unresisting body out of the van. In the dimness, John couldn't be sure of who the body belonged to, but he felt fairly certain that it belonged to the Alpha who had lost his fight and been executed. The bodyguard holding Sherlock released him, moving to help the other man lift the body. Sherlock's eyes ticked to the Taser the driver still held beside John's face, though, and he did not attempt to get away.

 With one large man on either end, the body was taken and tossed unceremoniously into the open cargo hold of another van. John and Sherlock stood silent and still, John's eyes flicking periodically to the Taser hovering next to his cheek. He knew he could disarm the driver in two quick moves, but that wasn't what they were there for. He blew a slow sigh out of his nose, resisting the urge to knock the driver down, take his Taser, and show him what it felt like to be 'fried.'

 The bodyguards returned from transferring the body and one of them looked up into the dark interior of the van beside which John and Sherlock stood.

 "Budge up. Two more," he said, and there were soft grumbles and the sound of people shifting around inside the blackness of the cargo hold. The guard shoved Sherlock up and into the van and the moonlight did not penetrate enough for John to see him once he shuffled past the edge of the metal flooring.

 "Put his bitch on his lap," the driver said, waving the Taser at John's face. "And then we have to get going. I'm dying for a piss and it's still a twenty minute drive."

 John was lifted roughly by one of the over-muscled bodyguards and dropped unceremoniously onto Sherlock's lap. It was hard to keep his balance with his hands zip tied in front of him and his ankles bound together, but Sherlock lifted his bound hands to press the back of one gently against John's side, keeping him from toppling back out of the van. John was able to get a secure seat on Sherlock's thighs just as the double doors leading out to the darkened parking lot behind the warehouse slammed shut, closing them into the utter blackness of the interior of the van with an unknown number of Alphas.

 "You brought your Mate?" a female voice with a heavily Scottish accent asked. John had only seen one female Alpha fighting that night: the impressive woman with the bright red hair.

 "Where he goes, I go." John's tone was decisive.

 "Smells good," a male voice rumbled.

 "Fuckable," another one agreed, and John's jaw tightened. He could feel Sherlock going tight beneath him, the other man's chest rising and falling faster as he responded to the implicit threat in the voices in the dark.  
  
"Never smelled an Omega before. I was starting to think they were just made up, like unicorns. Wonder if the new guy will share."

 "Shut up," the woman snapped. "They're fucking Bonded. Have some respect."

 "Not if I kill him in our first fight," the man who'd said John smelled 'fuckable' responded, and John was opening his mouth to snap something when Sherlock's cool, icy voice broke through the darkness.

 "Did you know that there are seventeen ways to shatter a man's ribs using just your hands and arms? The number grows when you incorporate knees, feet, and head." Sherlock paused and John could feel the rising tension in the blackness of the cargo area. "I'm going to remember your voice. The first time we fight, I'm going to shatter no less than three of your ribs. If you continue talking about my Mate like this, I will endeavor to also fracture your clavicle and possibly one of your scapula."

 There was a long, heavy silence after Sherlock's words. Dimly, John could hear the crunch of footsteps on gravel outside the van and doors slamming on vehicles nearby.

 "Don't piss off the new guy," the woman said, her tone amused in the blackness of the cargo hold. "And don't talk about his Mate. Take notes, boys."

 The driver's door of the van they were in slammed, punctuating her words, and a moment later the engine rumbled into life. John leaned back against Sherlock's chest to stabilize himself and seconds later the van was in motion, taking them to their destination. John hoped that Sherlock had a plan for once they arrived; he felt fairly certain that things would not go well for either of them if they stayed with this fighting ring for long.


	10. Chapter 10

John had not expected a disused ASDA building to be where Littleton was keeping his Alphas between battles. However, when the van parked and the bodyguards began unloading everyone from the cargo area at the back of the van, it was impossible for him to _not_ recognize the shopping centre. For one thing, the loading bay doors still had the company logo painted on them, although it was faded with the passage of time and the power of inclement weather.

 He didn't get long to look, though, as the driver was coming around to help with moving the fighters into the building, gesturing John forward with his Taser again, moving uncomfortably and with a dark frown on his face; John supposed the man still needed the loo. If so, it definitely wasn't making the man any more pleasant to be around. His temper seemed shorter than it had back at the warehouse where the fights were held.

 "Don't try anything," he said, throwing a glance at Sherlock, his mouth twisting into a sneer. "Or else your -"  
  
"John gets fried." Sherlock sounded bored. "I _was_ listening the first time."

 The inside of the store was bare and echoing with their footsteps and the occasional ringing metallic clang. Fluorescent lights buzzed disconsolately overhead, illuminating hard concrete floors and what looked like at least fifty stand-alone jail cells. Most of the cells were occupied with what John had to assume were Alphas, the only nods to comfort a few blankets and a large metal bucket in each cage.

 "This isn't -" Sherlock began and John didn't even have a chance to flinch before his entire body went taught and aching. He couldn't scream and couldn't move, limited to twitching and making a sharp, guttural noise as electricity scrambled his brain's signals and locked up his body.

 He could hear Sherlock's enraged shout and the sound of scuffling but he couldn't make himself respond to any of the auditory stimuli. He was only vaguely aware of being lifted by hands under his arms and dragged along, his muscles still twitching occasionally and causing the heels of his shoes to stutter against the concrete floor.

 He was dumped unceremoniously onto a pile of blankets and heard a loud, echoing metallic 'clang' and then nothing except Sherlock's furious breath as the other man leaned close, his hands brushing over John's chest and face as Sherlock checked him.

When John was finally able to start moving under his own power again, he found that he and Sherlock were locked into one of the cages, John lying on their cage's meager blankets and groaning softly, Sherlock pacing the three metre by three metre cage, his movements sharp and furious.

"Did that bastard Tase me?" John asked, his voice low and rough. Sherlock kept pacing, obviously unable to calm himself.

"If I had realized that my speaking would lead to your punishment, I wouldn't have opened my mouth." Sherlock spoke in a low mutter, his deep voice even deeper in his fury.

"Apology accepted." John shoved the soles of his shoes against the cement floor until he was able to slowly push himself into a sitting position with his back against the metal bars of the cage. He could feel the chill of the metal even through the layers of his jacket, button-up shirt, and vest, but he didn't think he was capable of sitting up on his own yet; he needed the support, even if the bars were cool enough to make him break out in gooseflesh. He glanced around, noting that none of the bodyguards seemed to be around at the moment. Were the fighters left pinned up alone all night, then?

Sherlock was glancing around the building as he paced, his pale eyes taking in everything. After several moments of watching Sherlock pacing, John pushed himself carefully to his feet, holding on to the cold bars of the cage behind himself until he was sure he was stable on his feet. A second sweep of the space showed that there weren't any guards inside the building. Either Littleton felt confident that the cages could hold the Alphas or there were guards stationed out of sight indoors or waiting outside the building.

As Sherlock paced past John for the twentieth time, he began speaking rapidly, not bothering to keep his voice down, obviously still keyed up from watching John be Tased. "It looks as if there are fifty cages but only somewhere around thirty-five people. I question whether this is due to their habit of killing the Alphas who lose too many fights or if it's hard to find Alphas willing to sign up for organized fights."  
  
"A little of both," a female voice called, and both John and Sherlock turned towards it. The female Alpha who had won her fight so handily and who had been the only one to speak up for John in the back of the cargo van was five cages down from them, slightly occluded from sight by the three Alpha men in the cages between them. As John and Sherlock watched, though, the men were stepping out of the way to give them a more direct line of sight to the woman. She was holding on to the bars of her cage, facing John and Sherlock. Her red hair was as bright as John remembered, falling in her face in wild tangles from the fight earlier in the evening. Her jaw jutted out as she glared across the forest of cage bars, meeting Sherlock's eyes as directly as she could. "Doesn't help that we're becoming a rare breed now, us genetic anomalies. So many Betas, so few Alphas and Omegas. And Littleton is doing his part to ensure we go from 'endangered' to 'extinct.'"

There was a grumble of agreement from the other Alphas trapped in the large, open building, her voice carrying over the assembled group despite the fact that she wasn't really raising it. Sounds carried easily in the room, bouncing off the concrete floors and the cinderblock walls. It would be damned hard to have a private conversation, John realized, and filed that thought away for later.

"Then why did any of you sign up?" Sherlock asked, and bitter laughter swept through the room. John glanced around, taking in the angrily amused expressions of the other Alphas as they shot one another knowing looks.

"Sign up? Oh, darling, if you think all of us _chose_ to be here, you haven't been paying attention," the woman called. "I was snatched off the street in Aberdeen. The majority of us were taken off the streets, actually. A lot of the fighters are A/O's Rights activists who were pulled from protests throughout the UK and even as far away as America. About ten of the Alphas here sought out the fights based on rumors on the street and signed Littleton's contract. But the reality of it is that we're _all_ Littleton's prisoners. We're all fighting in the ring to try to steal one more day of life before we end up with a bullet in our brains."

Sherlock went stiff at her words. His eyes were sweeping the room again, ticking across the assembled Alphas that he could see. John could only imagine what the genius detective was picking out from the sparse details evident on each of the men, but seeing Sherlock engaged in something as normal as deducing a person's history at a glance was oddly comforting to John.

"I was lead to believe that the fights were a good investment for an Alpha seeking a little extra money." Sherlock's voice was cautiously probing, and the red haired Alpha woman gave a bitter laugh, several of the other men in the cages joining in.

"None of us are getting any money out of this," she said, and there was a rumble of muted agreement. "None of us are even getting our _lives_ at the end of it. We fight until we lose, and we _all_ lose eventually. It's impossible to keep yourself believing that if you just keep on taking the beatings every night, that you'll eventually figure out a way to escape. Eventually, it's easier to lay down and _stay_ down and wait for the bullet. Colin reached that point tonight during his fight with Amir."

John remembered a man's voice in the warehouse calling out that it was the 'third time for Colin' before a guard had approached the fighting ring to shoot the downed fighter and shook his head slightly. The Alpha - Colin - hadn't really tried to get up from the cement floor when he'd been knocked down. As the female Alpha had just said, he had stayed down and waited for the bullet.

 "And then sometimes they inject you with that shit," a new voice called. The woman shuddered at his words, nodding.

 "Yeah, about once a week they'll inject one of the fighters with... something. That one always wins the fight. No one is sure what it is, but it makes them into some kind of unstoppable beast."

 Sherlock's eyes sharpened at the words, scanning the group. "Has anyone here had the injection before?"

 "Colin had it a week back," the woman said, shaking her head. "But no one else still here has been one of the main event fighters. It's only the main event fighters who get the injection."

 "How do I become a main event fighter?" Sherlock asked.

 "Win two fights," the woman said, shrugging lightly. "But there's no guarantee that you'll get an injection even if you are in the main event. It's unpredictable. There's no pattern."

 "Not that you can see." Sherlock waved one hand lightly. "How long have you been fighting?"

 "About a month," the woman said. "No one else has been here as long as me. High turnover."

 Adrenaline was pulsing through John in stinging waves, his fight or flight instinct kicking into high gear. His fingers were tingling and he could feel his left hand beginning to tremor. He clenched both hands tight before flexing his fingers and giving them little shakes, trying to force himself into calmness.

 "Sherlock." The word was a whisper to try and stop it carrying across the disused ASDA building, but Sherlock held up one finger to silence him, still focusing on the woman several cages away.

 "If the conditions are so terrible, why has no one tried to escape?"

 "We've tried," another voice called from the tangle of cages and Alphas. John looked for the speaker, but he was far enough away in the jungle of bars and bodies that John couldn't pinpoint him. "They kill anyone who tries to escape. No one ever gets far."

 "I've only seen the one gun," Sherlock pointed out. "Everything else appears to be Tasers."

 "They don't need guns if they can knock you down with a jolt of electricity and cut your throat while you're immobilized," the woman pointed out.

 "Not very forgiving of escape attempts, then." Sherlock's tone was dry and he tipped his head down slightly, obviously thinking.

 "Not unless you're a big moneymaker," the woman replied. "I've been here just over a month and I've seen them forgive two Alphas for trying to make a run for it, but both of them were main event fighters. But no one stays a main event fighter for long. A loss is inevitable because we're _all_ trying to stay alive."

 Sherlock was silent at that, turning slightly away from the other Alphas and seemingly focusing on the floor. John could see his eyes ticking rapidly back and forth as the taller man ran through all the information he'd gathered. John stepped up close to him, looking across the jungle of cage bars to catch the woman's eyes.

 "What's your name?" he called.

 "Aileen," she called back.

 "I'm John. This is... Scott, my Mate. We're not planning to stay here." John was trying to sound comforting but Aileen looked unconvinced. "We'll make sure we don't leave anyone behind when we get out of here." Aileen gave him a sad smile, shaking her head as she turned away from him and sat heavily down on the pile of blankets in her cage.

 "John," Sherlock said, but he didn't sound angry.

 "Yeah?" John turned towards Sherlock, keeping his voice a low murmur in the hopes that it wouldn't carry around the building.

 "This has become much more complicated, and I believe our timeline had shortened considerably. We'll need to find the labs and get the sample as quickly as possible to avoid an unpleasant outcome. Thankfully, it's likely just beyond that false wall, so it's really only a matter of my getting out of the cage and through that door." Sherlock nodded across the building and John glanced over, eyebrows lowering as he took in the wall. It looked the exact same as the other four walls he could see: cinderblocks painted with old, chipping paint that had probably been white once upon a time. It didn't look like a false wall to him and he definitely didn't see a door on it anywhere, but Sherlock had raised one hand and was running his fingers along his jaw absentmindedly, continuing to speak. "And, since you've just volunteered us to rescue the other Alphas in this building, we'll also have to figure out a way to overpower the guards and take their keys. Thank you, John, you've just turned a relatively simple theft into an action-adventure film."

 "We can't just _leave_ them here." John felt himself tensing up, aware that he'd increased the difficulty of their goal but unable to leave behind what basically amounted to innocent victims who were going to be slaughtered.

 "No, of course not." Sherlock waved John's words away. "It merely complicates things, having to find a way to get them all out. Now, shut up - I need to think."

John settled back onto the blankets on the concrete floor, smoothing them out as best he could to get comfortable and removing his jacket to make himself a rough pillow. It was remarkably difficult, the blankets not taking away much of the cold seeping up through the concrete and definitely not giving John much of a cushion.

All around them, the Alphas were settling in for the night, curling up on their own meager blankets. Soon the building was silent except for the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead and the susurration of breathing. It took him several hours, but eventually John settled into sleep as well, his last sight that of Sherlock muttering silently to himself, running through all the information he'd gathered that evening and hopefully solving the problems at hand.

 


	11. Chapter 11

John quickly learned that life in the fighting ring consisted of long hours of aching boredom followed by brief periods of panicked activity. He couldn't sleep in the following morning; the concrete floor was not comfortable enough to keep him down for long and the sounds of the Alphas moving around their cages slowly intruded on his uncomfortable, uneasy sleep.

 Sherlock was awake and sitting in the corner nearest John, his eyes shut and his hands steepled under his chin as he presumably lost himself in his Mind Palace. John wondered briefly if Sherlock had slept at all the night before, but it seemed unlikely; Sherlock didn't sleep much even when they were in their own flat and there wasn't imminent death or injury looming over them. He hoped Sherlock would be able to get some sleep the following night, though; he wouldn't be much use in a fight if he were suffering from sleep deprivation.

 In the cages scattered throughout the building, men were stretching and doing pull ups using the bars that made up the roofs of their cages, doing practice punches at the air, and engaging in various other forms of physical exercise in the limited space of their prisons.

 John slowly pushed to his feet, wincing slightly as old injuries that always ached in the morning checked in and let him know that they were still with him, despite his changed situation. He rubbed a hand over his face, wishing strongly for a cup of coffee or tea to ease his way into full wakefulness.

 "Slept in." John turned towards Aileen's voice, taking her in; she was sweating lightly, her curls sticking to her forehead and neck in places. She'd obviously been engaging in the same morning exercise that the male Alphas were still working through.

 "Doesn't feel like it." John rubbed his hand across the back of his neck where the joints were refusing to loosen up and allow him to have his full range of motion.

 "For the waking schedules around here, you slept in. Isn't your Alpha going to prep for the fights tonight? They won't spare him just because he's new." Aileen's hands reached up to grip the bars of her cage as she craned her neck, trying to get a better view of Sherlock where he sat cross legged and seemingly unconcerned by everything happening in the building around him.

 "Uh... he probably _is_ prepping, actually." John shrugged lightly. "That's how he is."

 Aileen looked doubtful, but she shrugged after a moment and smiled at John. "Well, breakfast will be delivered in the next hour. They work us in groups: four of us go to the showers to wash and shave or whatever while four of us get to eat. It's awful if you're in the last group of four to have your meal delivered, but everyone eventually eats and everyone gets to visit the washroom, so it could be worse."

 John frowned; it definitely _could_ be worse, but the reality of their situation was bleak enough without musing on the 'could be's.

 "They only let us out at mealtimes?"

 "Oh, no, they only let us out at breakfast and then for a fight in the evenings. The rest of the day, we're in our lovely cages. That's what the bucket is for." Aileen nodded down towards her own bucket, a wry smile touching her pretty face for a moment. "They also empty our buckets while we're having a wash so you get to come back to an empty wee pail. Nice, isn't it?"

 John grimaced and glanced down at Sherlock, wondering how much his Mate was hearing while wandering his Mind Palace. If they were potentially only going to be let out of their cage once today, that didn't give them a lot of time to search for the synthetic adrenaline.

 Sherlock's eyes were open, though, focused sharply on Aileen across the forest of cage bars. He rose smoothly to his feet, lending credence to John's theory that he hadn't slept at all the night before. He turned towards John, moving close enough that his lips were brushing the shell of John's ear and his warm breath was ruffling the tiny hairs in John's shaved-short sideburns.

 "We'll need to take advantage of our freedom from the cages this morning to explore this building. Unless I'm horribly mistaken, the washrooms are on the wall to the right of the false wall they've put up on the far side of the building. When they are moving us past that false wall, I'm going to pick a fight with one of the other Alphas and I need you to try and find the door that leads past the false wall while the guards are distracted."

 "Sherlock, are you sure that's -"

 "It's the best we have," Sherlock snapped, cutting John's whisper off. "I can take whatever punishment they mete out, and the sooner we know where the adrenaline is being synthesized, the sooner we can get a sample and make our escape."

 John's jaw tightened as he bit down on all the protests he wanted to make; Sherlock had a point, unfortunately. The guards would almost certainly give him some sort of physical punishment for picking a fight, but the importance of getting the hell out of their current situation was too important for them to shy away from a little physical pain.

 Finally, John sighed and nodded, and Sherlock leaned in a fraction, the bridge of his nose and the barest edge of his forehead resting in John's hair. He heard the soft inhalation as Sherlock scented him, and then the taller man was turning away, pacing the confines of the cage in sharp, jerky movements as he ran through whatever mad ideas were percolating in his head.

 Aileen had watched the exchange from her cage across the building, and John was startled to see a look of mild jealousy and deep sorrow on her face as he looked away from his Mate's pacing. The jealousy he could understand; Alphas and Omegas were becoming a rarity and the likelihood of an Alpha/Omega Mated pair existing in the last few years had become slightly less likely than a workable cure for world hunger being dumped onto the free market. The sorrow, though, perplexed him and he shot her a questioning look.

 "It'll be rough for you," Aileen called, shaking her head slowly. Several Alphas glanced up from their workouts, shooting glances between Aileen and John, their faces tightening slightly as they realized what she was saying. "When he fights, if they take you to the arena, it'll be rough to watch. If they leave you here, it'll be rough to imagine what he's going through. It'll be rough for you to have to nurse his wounds while locked in a cage with no medical supplies. It'll be rough to know that, eventually, he won't be walking away from one of his fights. It would have been better if your Alpha hadn't brought you along. I'm sorry for you, John."

 John pressed his lips together, nodding at Aileen's words. That was the point of finding the adrenaline as quickly as possible, he reminded himself: preventing Sherlock being beaten to death in the arena. The guards giving him a black eye or bloody nose this morning was well worth it if it prevented Sherlock from dying in a fight later.

 It was another hour before the heavy metal door at the back of the building clanged open and a group of ten laughing, chattering overly-muscled men walked in. John noticed each one had a Taser clipped to his belt and not a single one of them looked like they would hesitate to fry the eyes out of an Alpha's head if they misbehaved. John threw a doubtful glance at Sherlock, but the other man was watching the guards intently, probably deducing all sorts of interesting things about them, none of which John could possibly hope to figure out. Hopefully, Sherlock's intense scrutiny was giving him something useful to work with and he would be able to figure out a way to achieve his goal without ending up Tased into immobility this morning.

 They watched as the guards set to the morning routine, getting Alphas out of their cages in groups of four with four of the Taser-armed guards marching the Alphas across the huge building in the direction Sherlock had guessed the bathrooms must be. The remaining six guards began emptying buckets and dropping shopping bags in the cages. John watched as the Alphas pulled out soft drink cans and basic vending machine sandwiches. John grimaced faintly at the available fare, but at least they were being fed and the caffeine in the soft drinks wouldn't be completely unwelcome.

 When a guard approached their cage, Taser drawn and ready, John threw a glance over at Sherlock. His Mate was staring across the building through the forest of cage bars, watching the latest group of Alphas being led back from the bathrooms. They weren't even attempting to fight back, moving like docile lambs back towards their cages while the guards chatted over their heads, obviously expecting the passive behavior from their charges.

 "Hey!" John looked back towards the guard at the cage door, taking in the annoyed scowl. "Push the bucket over, unless you don't want it emptied until tomorrow morning."

 "Right." John grabbed the bucket by the handles, hefting it towards the guard. Both he and Sherlock had used it the night before and he grimaced faintly as he positioned it in the cage door where the guard could grab it. It wasn't any worse than things he'd had to endure as a doctor, but somehow it seemed insulting to be hefting a bucket full of his and his Mate's piss.

 The guard grabbed the bucket and tossed in two shopping bags before slamming and locking the cage door behind him. He walked away, carrying the bucket towards the loading area through which they had come to night before. John supposed there might be more toilets there; surely the guards weren't just emptying the buckets onto the ground outside the old ASDA building.

 "Better eat." John glanced over at Sherlock, surprised to see his Mate digging into one of the shopping bags and pulling out his sandwiches.

 "You're going to eat?" John asked, surprise obvious in his voice.

 "I have to. I didn't manage to sleep last night; too many thoughts. If I don't eat, there's little chance of me successfully defeating an opponent in a fight tonight."

 "You think they'll make you fight so soon after you signed on?" John reached for his own bag, popping open the soft drink can and taking a sip. He grimaced; it was warm, but, he reminded himself, at least it was caffeinated.

 "I think they will." Sherlock paused to take a bite, chewing without any obvious enjoyment before swallowing. "I would imagine having a new fighter is a big money draw. With their turnover rate of dead Alphas, I would guess they need to bring new blood into the fights as immediately as they can."

 John's jaw tightened faintly as he stared at his tall, slim Mate; he had seen Sherlock fight before during the course of previous casework, and he knew the man could handle himself in a fight, but the thought of Sherlock locked in the dog cage with any of the Alphas John had seen being marched towards the washrooms that morning made his stomach twist uncomfortably within his belly. He set his bag of sandwiches down, staring hard at Sherlock across their small cage, wishing desperately to be able to get the hell out of there right that minute rather than waiting to steal the experimental adrenaline. Surely Ford would forgive their failure if John pointed out that Sherlock was in danger of dying?

 John sighed, looking away from Sherlock to stare down at the cement floor. No, Ford would never take that excuse. Ford had ensured the death of his younger brother's dog simply to teach him a lesson about beating Ford in a war of words. His sentiment for Sherlock almost certainly did not extend to letting Sherlock walk away from this situation with his life intact unless Sherlock was able to achieve Ford's goal of taking a sample of the adrenaline. And if they called off this favor, that meant they defaulted to Ford's other offer: Sherlock impregnating Victor Trevor, although Victor's Heat was almost certainly over by now. Would that mean that Victor would have to stay with them for six months until his next Heat? John shuddered at the idea, shaking his head. Their only choice was to get the adrenaline as quickly as possible and get the hell out of here.

 The lock on the cage snapped open again and John looked up. Two guards were in front of their cage, their expressions bored. "All right, fresh meat; let's go. You get to have a wash and piss in an actual loo."

 Sherlock stepped forward immediately, face carefully blank of all expression as he glanced around to see which two Alphas were being released from their cages to make up their group of four captives. John trailed after him, still playing the meek and obedient Omega. The guards barely paid him any attention at all, letting him trail just a bit behind them as they talked to each other and kept their disinterested eyes on the Alphas just ahead of them.

 Their group was nearly at the far wall when the Alpha walking just ahead and to the right of Sherlock stumbled, nearly falling. The guards barely had a chance to shout when the man spun on Sherlock, his expression murderous.

 "You wanker! You tripped me!"

 "You tripped over your own feet. I've always heard the saying that Alphas are little more than dumb sides of beef, but I'd never thought to see it in action." Sherlock's tone was cutting and cold and John didn't blame the other Alpha at all for lunging at Sherlock, shouting expletives as he attacked. Sherlock dodged him neatly before reaching out to give him a little shove between his shoulder blades, increasing the man's fury exponentially.

 John realized he was wasting time watching the distraction Sherlock was providing and he backed up quickly, stepping away from the group until his back collided with the cement block wall behind him. He spun quickly, scanning up and down the wall for a door handle or a break in the painted cement blocks that would indicate a door. It took only a few moments for him to see it; the door handle had been painted with the same off-white paint as the walls and it made the door handle fade into the wall from a distance. John had his hand on it and was twisting it open within seconds.

 He had the barest moment to look into the opened door, taking in a short hallway that took a sharp curve to the left after only a couple metres and to catch a familiar smell of bleach and some other chemical, and then he heard someone shouting from across the huge, echoing room, "Hey! Watch him - he's getting away!"

 Electricity sizzled through him in a muscle-clenching wave of misery and John blacked out before he hit the floor.

 When he slowly came to, he and Sherlock were back in their cage. Sherlock was sitting beside him on the cold concrete floor, once more giving the blankets over to John. Sherlock had a spot of blood around one nostril and his hair was ruffled, but he looked otherwise unhurt. John groaned softly, deciding not to bother pushing himself into a sitting position for a bit longer.

 "Getting tired of that." John's voice was a thin whisper and Sherlock pushed his warm soft drink from earlier across the cement floor towards him.

 "Mm. I didn't think they'd Tase you again. At worst, I thought they'd manhandle you back to the cage. I thought _I'd_ get some sort of reprimand for causing a fight, but I suppose the guards have been instructed to punish you for my crimes. I'll try to avoid causing problems in the future unless I can do so without being seen."

 John dragged the warm soft drink closer, pushing up slightly against the bars of the cage. "Yeah, that'd be good." After taking a sip from the can, John nodded slightly towards Sherlock's blood-crusted nostril. "Who bloodied your nose?"

 Sherlock reached up to rub lightly at it, examining the flecks of dried blood on the heel of his hand. "The other Alpha got in a lucky punch before they Tased him down, too. Since I wasn't so much putting up a fight as dodging his blows, they just dragged me back to the cage and tossed me in. It wasn't until I saw them pulling you along by your arms that I realized they'd Tased you again." Sherlock's face darkened slightly, full lips pinching as he glanced out over the cages and Alphas surrounding them. "I'm getting tired of seeing you like that."

 John snorted softly; he was getting tired of _being_ like that. He took another sip of his drink and kept his comments to himself, though; no sense poking at what was obviously a sore spot.

 "You missed Littleton coming by while you were out. He's informed me that I'll be taking center stage tonight, as punishment for the dust up with the other Alpha."

 "On your first fight, you're going to be the main event?" John couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice.

 "Littleton said I seemed so keen when I signed the contract last night that he wanted to challenge me right from the start. From the way he looked at me, I get the feeling that I'll almost certainly be going up against someone who's been giving the synthetic adrenaline." Sherlock paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "I suppose not _all_ of my punishment is being given to you, after all."

 John could not comment, his stomach twisting with sudden worry. He thought of the panic button tucked in Sherlock's trouser pocket and wondered if Ford's anger would be less life-threatening than fighting an Alpha pumped on synthetic adrenaline. John sipped the warm soft drink and worried.


	12. Chapter 12

The only difference in the van ride from the derelict ASDA building to the new location of that night's fight and John's first ride in the van was that he and Sherlock were sharing a seat on the opposite side of the van's cargo area. The guards still seemed to find a kind of stupid pleasure in forcing John to sit on Sherlock's lap, zip-tied and uncomfortable for the nearly 45 minute ride.

 All the Alphas in the back of the van were unfamiliar to John and Sherlock; Aileen had been left back in her cage when they had rounded up that evening's ten fighters plus John. She had cast John a sympathetic glance as he and Sherlock were marched out of the main body of the building and into the loading area, her green eyes wide and sorrowful when John briefly met them.

 Thankfully, the new group didn't comment on John being an Omega. For the most part, they all sat in a tense silence, keeping their thoughts to themselves as the van juddered and bounced over the road.

 When the van finally slid to a stop and the engine cut off, John shifted on Sherlock's thighs expectantly, but the double doors at the back of the cargo area didn't open. John couldn't stop the impatient fidgets, and finally one of the other Alphas in the dark cargo area took pity on him.

 "They're setting up for the fights. We'll be locked up until they're ready for us, and even then they only take out the two who're fighting in each event. Everyone else stays in the van until it's their turn to fight. So, just sit still and wait until your Alpha goes to fight."

 "They just leave us in here for hours?"

 "What, like they've been so solicitous up to this point?" John couldn't see the man who spoke, but the accent was pure east coast American, sharp in John's ears and yet familiar at the same time; he'd known a few American soldiers when he'd been in Afghanistan that had the same accent. A few had been drinking buddies, when they got enough downtime to actually relax and have a drink or two. The accent brought the memories back so sharp that, for a moment, John could almost smell the earthy scent of baking rocks and the richness of sagebrush, despite the overwhelming smell of poorly washed bodies and exhaled air in the cramped cargo area of the van.

 Before John had a chance to respond to the American Alpha, he heard footsteps crunching over gravel coming around the van. After a second or two, the doors squealed open and moonlight slid into the van to turn the previously black interior into a murky gloom where no one was truly visible except out of the corner of John's eyes, their twitchy movements as they waited to see who would be going into the first fight of the evening visible even in the poor light. Then the guard flicked on a torch and John couldn't stop his brief groan of pain as his eyes slammed shut against the sudden brightness.

 "You." The guard at the doors of the van pointed with the torch, illuminating one of the Alphas sitting opposite John and Sherlock. "In the vest. You, get out."

 The man stood and shuffled cautiously towards the doors, obviously having trouble with the zip ties around his ankles. As he moved fully into the doorway of the van, John realized the man had been taken into the fighting ring in a vest and what looked like loose exercise shorts. No wonder he was shuffling so badly; the thin plastic strips were undoubtedly cutting into the thin skin of his ankles above the short socks he'd been wearing with his trainers when he was taken prisoner.

 The Alpha hopped down from the lip of the van onto the shifting gravel of the parking lot and stumbled. The guard moved out of the way quickly, letting the Alpha fall down onto the gravel. John's jaw clenched in impotent fury as he watched the Alpha struggling to regain his feet with both his wrists and ankles zip tied. The guard didn't offer to help, watching with barely contained boredom and with one hand resting on the Taser at his waist. When the Alpha finally managed to get back to his feet, the guard nudged him with one bent knee to the left side of the van. "Go stand by the door and I'll cut your zip ties before we go in. I'll Tase you if you try anything."

 The Alpha shuffled forward without a word, the sound of his steps fading after a few moments. Before the sound died away completely, another guard had stepped up to the back of the van and flicked his own torch on, swinging it across the Alphas with complete disregard for their night vision. "You in the jumper. No, not you... you, in the back. You're up."

 The Alpha moved forward quicker than the other one had, but he had the buffer of socks between his skin and the zip ties. He also had an eager smile on his face as he hopped down from the back lip of the cargo van, managing not to lose his balance upon impact on the loose gravel. John felt his stomach twisting; unless the Alpha in the gym clothes was very lucky, John had a feeling that man would not be coming back a winner. This second Alpha looked far too eager and moved with much more confidence and bodily awareness despite the zip ties.

 The second guard repeated the instructions the first guard had given his prisoner - go to the door, your zip ties will be cut, and you'll be Tased if you try anything - before slamming the doors of the cargo van shut and throwing the interior back into pitch darkness made worse by the shining of the torches into everyone's faces moments before. John sat blinking against the darkness, starbursts of light clouding his vision long after the Alphas and guards had gone.

 After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the occasional throat clearing or shifting on the metal seats, John finally spoke. "Do we just... sit here?"

 "What else do you suggest we do? Start our own fighting ring right here in the back of this van?" John didn't recognize the voice, but the barely contained anger in it made his entire body tighten. Whoever was speaking sounded like he'd like nothing more than to launch himself into one of the other Alphas in a no-holds-barred attack.

 "Just shut up, Omega." It was the American Alpha again. "We sit here. We wait. When they tell us to get out, we get out and fight until we win or lose. Then they drag us back to the van and we sit and bleed until we get back to our cage, where we can lay down and bleed like civilized humans."

 John's breath blew out of him in a gust and he wasn't able to speak for a beat. "They... they just let you bleed? They don't treat it or... or offer you a plaster or anything?"

 No one replied, but the silence told John all he needed to know. He leaned back against Sherlock's chest, feeling his Mate's bound hands pressing into his lower back as his weight settled onto the other man. John couldn't think of anything except Sherlock, beaten and bleeding and stuck in their cage with no clean bandages or antibiotic ointment or _anything_. Sherlock obviously knew where his Mate's thoughts were going, because he rubbed the tip of his nose gently in the hair on the back of John's head, offering what small comfort he could to John in the relative privacy offered by the pitch black cargo area of the van.

 After a few more silent minutes passed, the sound of gravel being kicked and scattered came to them through the thin metal walls of the van. The doors were flung open and John turned to watch as the guards put new zip ties on the wrists and ankles of the Alpha in the jumper. He was still smiling, although there was blood dripping from his nose in a steady stream and staining his teeth. The guards lifted him up into the van and he hobbled back to his place, thumping down into his seat on the long bench without a word, the Alphas on either side of him shifting as much away from him as they could in the cramped van. The second Alpha was swaying unsteadily on his feet, the swelling on his face making his expression unreadable. He, also, had a bloody nose, but there were also multiple lacerations and darkening bruises on his face that spoke of several vicious blows. He had to be shoved bodily up into the cargo area of the van and he stumbled badly, nearly falling into the lap of one of the Alphas before he made it to his seat. John had no doubt who had won that fight.  
  
And so it went, Alpha after Alpha in groups of two. They would come back bloodied and beaten, sometimes both Alphas so torn apart that it was impossible to know who'd been the victor in their particular fight. Eventually, John had counted four groups of two and he knew that they would be going in next.

 It was no surprise at all when the guard turned his torch into John's face; John was able to turn away and squint his eyes, mostly preserving his night vision. "All right, you... the one with the Omega. You're both going in, so get up."

 John's heart stuttered, missing several beats before he was able to push himself to his feet and stumble unsteadily towards the open doors. He sat on the lip and lowered himself carefully down to the gravel; he didn't need to prove anything by leaping down like the Alphas had done. The guard dragged him to one side to make room for Sherlock. John was vaguely annoyed to see the tall man jump down from the lip, but Sherlock landed like a cat, knees bending to take the force of the landing before he straightened smoothly. He managed to make the necessary shuffle of his bound feet look almost graceful and John gave a soft snort of amusement before the guard shoved him forward, giving the same spiel he'd given to the Alphas before them.

 John shuffled towards the large building ahead of him, thankful for the arc sodium light positioned over a pitted, scarred metal door. It gave him a definite goal to head for and made it less likely that he'd trip and break an arm trying to catch himself on the shifting gravel of the parking lot. Someone had apparently recently added more gravel, because it was deep and treacherous to walk on, constantly sliding and shifting out from under his feet.

 True to his word, the guard waited until they were standing beside the corrugated metal side of the building before carefully cutting through the zip ties around their ankles and wrists with a box knife. There was a second guard waiting at the door with a hand on his Taser in case John or Sherlock tried anything, but both behaved perfectly; they'd both had enough of John being Tased.

 Once the zip ties had been cut free, the guard waiting at the door opened it and noise rushed out at John in a wave. The excited murmurs of the crowd were obvious even from where he stood, and he could hear someone shouting over the murmurs. He couldn't understand everything, but he definitely heard the word "Mates" and he stiffened as he realized that the crowd had been warned that one of the Alphas in the main event fight had his Mated Omega with him.

 Sherlock moved ahead of John as soon as they were inside the warehouse, eyes scanning over the gathered crowd in sharp sweeps before he pressed his full lips into a thin line and drew his heavy eyebrows low over his eyes, moving forward with as much confidence and disinterest as John had ever seen him project. John followed just behind him, the guards on either side of him as they headed towards the crowd of men and the large chain-link dog run in the center of the warehouse.

 Behind them, John heard the metal door opening and closing as the second Alpha came in. He wanted to glance back and take in Sherlock's opponent, but he might lose his aura of nonchalance if he did that. Anyway, he'd know soon enough if the other Alpha were someone to be worried about, even with the potential of the shot of experimental adrenaline; Sherlock was nearly to the cage where he'd be fighting and John would be able to turn around in only a few moments.

 One of the guards moved forward, giving Sherlock a not-so-gentle nudge through the open door and into the dog run. Somehow, Sherlock managed to avoid stumbling from the guard's shove and John glanced off to his left to take in the other Alpha. He felt his stomach sink at the sight of the man: easily over six feet tall and heavily muscled, the Alpha looked like someone who had spent every spare moment at a gym lifting weights before he'd been forced into death matches against other Alphas. He moved like the lions John had seen at the London Zoo, confidence and threat in every slow, subtle flex of his muscles.

 The whispers from the crowd of Beta on-lookers were getting louder and John caught a name being thrown back and forth from man to man: Alfred. He threw another glance at the heavily muscled man and frowned. 'Alfred' didn't fit him at all. But then, neither 'Arnold' nor 'Sylvester' seemed like traditionally hyper-masculine names, but that hadn't stopped Arnold Schwarzenegger or Sylvester Stallone from becoming household names strongly associated with huge muscles and action films.

 Alfred was led around John and his two guards. Just as they passed John, he saw one of the guards pull a syringe from a hip pocket and uncap it, jabbing the needle into the thick muscle of Alfred's arse and depressing the plunger to inject the colorless liquid housed inside the syringe. Alfred gave a grunt of surprise, trying to turn and look over his shoulder, but the guards were shoving him into the cage with Sherlock. The door was shut as soon as Alfred was through and John took an unwilling step closer to the side of the cage, wishing he were in there to watch Sherlock's back. He could feel the weight of the crowd's eyes on him; he was nearly as entertaining at the fighters, apparently. Well, fuck them - he wouldn't be giving them an emotional show during the fight. John schooled his expression into one of stern concentration, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock's lean form beyond the crisscrossing strips of metal that made up the cage.

 For his own part, Sherlock seemed completely unconcerned about the impending fight with the huge Alfred. His pale eyes looked almost silver in the glow of the fluorescent light tubes hanging from the ceiling overhead and John watched them flick from Alfred's face and down his body, hoping his Mate was taking in any weaknesses Alfred might possess. And then, Alfred was stepping forward with his fists raised, crowding Sherlock as he prepared to take the first swing. John wondered how quickly the injection of adrenaline would take effect, eyes ticking from Sherlock to Alfred nervously.

 Watching Sherlock in a fight was like watching choreographed ballet, John realized after only a few seconds. Sherlock was constantly scrutinizing Alfred and anticipating his next move. Sherlock dodged nearly every swing, feet sliding across the rough cement floor as easily as they might have done a smooth sheet of ice. Sherlock literally danced circles around the larger Alpha, his face expressionless as he moved. As the seconds ticked by, Alfred's face grew angrier and angrier, his movements faster and more intense as he sought his prey. John couldn't be sure how much was the adrenaline and how much was sheer frustration.

 After nearly five minutes, the crowd was beginning to grow restless; they had come to see a fight, not to watch a tall, thin man dancing around their huge prize-fighter while he panted, sweated, and swung ineffectually. It shouldn't have surprised John at all when one of the guards next to him stepped forward and roughly shoved one arm through a spot in the chain-link of the dog run to catch hold of the back of Sherlock's shirt when Sherlock had dodged yet another of Alfred's devastatingly hard punches and stepped around behind Alfred.

 Sherlock went stiff in surprise, throwing a glance over his shoulder to see what had caught his shirt. John saw both anger and resignation in Sherlock's face when his Mate's eyes alighted on the guard's hand wrapped in the silk of his shirt, but by then, Alfred had spun around seeking his prey and, finding the man distracted, had dropped two heavy punches to Sherlock's ribs.

 The breath exploded out of Sherlock in a pained grunt and he doubled over, giving Alfred the perfect opportunity to bring both fists down on the back of his lowered head. Sherlock dropped to the floor like a marionette with cut strings, his face impacting the cement hard enough that John could hear it from five feet away. Alfred swung one tree-trunk leg, his foot catching Sherlock in his ribs and lifting him off the cement floor for a brief moment. John shouted angrily, lunging towards the side of the dog run, but his guards grabbed his arms and held him back. The crowd rumbled and John tossed a quick glance towards them, noticing eager grins on some faces as they absorbed his reaction. It wasn't likely many of them had ever seen an Omega before, let alone a Mated Omega. Watching him react to Sherlock's pain was obviously better even than watching a full-grown man being beaten. John pulled his eyes away from the keen smiles and turned his face back to his Mate on the cement floor inside the cage, once again reminding himself not to show emotion in front of these vultures.

 Sherlock pushed to his hands and knees slowly, obviously hurting from the blows that had been delivered. He managed to get back to his feet, but he wasn't focusing on Alfred properly; he was moving too slowly, and Alfred took advantage of it, his massive fists launching out and landing with bone-cracking heaviness on Sherlock's face, drawing a shout of pain from the tall man and spinning him around to crash into the chain link just in front of John. John lunged forward against the restraining hands of the guards at his sides, nearly breaking free before the huge men had a chance to tighten their grips on his arms; they obviously had not expected the meek Omega to fight back. Blood was running freely from lacerations to Sherlock's face, and John was panting hard with his desire to help the other man.

 Alfred's huge, booted foot shot out, the sole slamming into Sherlock's lower back and causing him to smash even harder against the chain link, drawing another pained grunt from him.

 Sherlock turned towards his assailant, chest heaving with each unsteady breath. Alfred stared at Sherlock for a moment and then delivered another powerful blow with his massive fist to Sherlock's face. Sherlock fell heavily down to the cement floor again, wheezing. He didn't attempt to rise again, obviously concentrating solely on catching his breath after Alfred's vicious attack.

 Alfred was prowling slowly around Sherlock's prone form, his expression murderous. Fine tremors were running through Alfred's muscled body; obviously, he had not enjoyed being made to look a fool during their fight. John braced himself for the huge man to take his ire out on Sherlock's unprotected body. After a moment, though, Alfred stepped away from Sherlock and turned his back, blowing out several heavy, angry breaths as he trembled and shook with the adrenaline coursing through him. Relief swept through John; as much as the man looked like a huge, unthinking brute, he wasn't going to behave like one. Sherlock was twitching, trying to get his arms and legs to coordinate enough that he could rise from the floor, but Alfred's final blow to his face had obviously rung his bell; nothing was working quite like it should. Two guards were moving into the cage, their expressions wary as they glanced between Alfred's broad back and Sherlock's twitching body on the cage floor. Moving in synchrony, the men lowered their drawn Tasers to Sherlock's body, sending electricity shooting through him and drawing a high-pitched whine from him that made John's entire body tighten in sympathy. Sherlock's docility ensured, the guards hooked their arms beneath his armpits and dragged him heavily from the cage and towards the back of the warehouse. The two guards holding John's arms began walking after them and John stumbled as he moved to go along with them, his eyes locked on Sherlock's shoes as they dragged lifelessly across the cement floor.

 From the watching crowd behind him, John heard a man's voice calling out, "That's Alfred's seventh win! First loss to newcomer Scott."   
  
John swallowed thickly; Sherlock only had two more losses before he would be shot in the cage like a racehorse with a broken leg. They _had_ to get the adrenaline and get the hell out of there.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock was still dazed by the time the guards dragged him to the back of the cargo van. Obviously, the combination of Alfred's blows to Sherlock's head plus the jolt from the Taser had left him worse off than many of the other fights that evening. The guards were unsympathetic, though, shoving him onto the long bench seat he'd previously occupied despite his disorientation and unresponsiveness. John was able to climb into the cargo area himself, but trying to balance on Sherlock's lap when he kept lolling bonelessly onto the shoulder of the Alpha sitting next to them on the long bench seat was difficult, especially with his hands and feet zip tied. John managed but not without a few close calls where he nearly fell onto the floor amidst the shoes of the other Alphas.

 They'd waited nearly ten minutes in silence in the blackness of the cargo area of the van while the heavily-muscled guards cleaned up and broke down the tables and cage after the fights. Somewhere between the van starting up and their journey back to the disused ASDA building, Sherlock came fully back to himself. John felt when Sherlock's muscles went from slack and twitching to tight with awareness.

 The Alpha next to them sighed in relief when Sherlock sat himself back upright, and John twisted slightly in the darkness, raising his zip tied hands to touch lightly at Sherlock's face, trying to feel how badly the injuries were. Sherlock had been dragged out ahead of John, his head dangling, and the doors of the van had been slammed almost as soon as the guards shoved John in, so there had been no time to assess how badly injured his Mate was. With Sherlock precariously balanced on the long bench seat and partly on the shoulder of the Alpha next to them, John had been hesitant to twist around the further disrupt Sherlock's tenuous seat. Now, John could feel for extreme swelling or broken bones and he was going to take full advantage of it.

 But Sherlock shook his head slightly, twisted away from John's hands. "Wait." The whispered word held a note of command and John's jaw tightened as he fought the urge to keep checking Sherlock over despite the other man's insistence. Finally, though, he turned back around, pressing his back firmly into Sherlock's chest and listening to the exhaled huff of air his petty move had forced from his stubborn Mate.

 They arrived back at their prison in another ten minutes and were unloaded with all the same care that the guards had shown the first time they had arrived, Taser's out and ready should either Sherlock or John make a peep.   
  
John caught Aileen's eyes as they were marched past, the sympathy twisting her pretty features while she took in Sherlock's injuries and John's tight jaw as the shorter man was marched past. Once they were back in their cage, the door slammed and locked to ensure they stayed there, John pinned Sherlock in a corner and began carefully feeling Sherlock's bloody nose - undoubtedly caused by his face's impact with the cement floor when Alfred knocked him down - to be sure it wasn't broken, stroking his fingers through Sherlock's hair to check the spot where Alfred had brought his fists down.

 When John went to lift Sherlock's shirt to check his ribs, though, Sherlock caught John's wrists in his hands, fingers tightening slightly. "Stop. They aren't broken. Bruised, but I can handle bruised. I got off lightly." Sherlock grimaced slightly, swiping a sleeve across his upper lip to wipe away the blood still leaking from his nose. He glanced at the white silk cuff and grimaced at the smear of red before raising his head to look around. John followed his move, realizing the guards were gone for the night and there was no one left in the large ASDA building but the Alphas in their cages.

 From across the forest of cage bars, a voice even deeper than Sherlock's called out, "Sorry, mate. I tried to hold back as much as I could but they shot me up with that stuff."

 John turned towards the speaker, Alphas moving to the edges of their cages to open up as much of a clear path as they could. Some six metres away, the hulking form of Alfred stood at the nearest side of his prison cell, staring over at John and Sherlock.

 "Tried not to hit too hard. I always try not to hurt anyone too much." Alfred shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, guilt obvious on his broad face as he shrugged his massive shoulders. "I don't like hurting people. I try to just knock them down enough that the guards end the fight. But they shot me with something and I was just... I was so _mad._ "

 "It was adrenaline," Sherlock called back, moving up beside John, the warmth of his body along John's arm and side comforting. "They're using experimental adrenaline, trying to perfect the formula."

 "So we're _guinea pigs,_ too?" Aileen sounded furious. "Prisoners _and_ guinea pigs?"

 "Precisely."

 There was a rumble of anger and dismay from the Alphas and John realized that the entire gathering of 35 Alphas had previously been silent, listening in on Sherlock's conversation with Aileen and Alfred. The sudden rumble of noise covered up whatever Aileen had been about to say and she had to shout over the furious murmurs of the assembled men.

 "So, when are you planning to make your escape? You're getting all of us out as well, right?"

 Sherlock glanced back at John, meeting his eyes for a moment and confirming their plan. John nodded slightly and Sherlock's eyes narrowed minutely in assent before he turned back to Aileen.

 "As soon as we're able. I need to get hold of the synthetic adrenaline; that's why we're here. Once I have it in hand, we can leave and John and I will ensure that _everyone_ leaves."

 "Then you'll have to make your move during breakfast some morning," Aileen said, her eyes narrowing in thought and fingers tapping repetitively at the cage bars where her hands gripped them. "It would be the best chance for getting the keys off the guards. They're usually on high alert after a fight night, keyed up from watching us try to kill each other. They're much more relaxed in the mornings."

"Then that's what we'll do. Tomorrow morning."

Aileen gave a little gasp of surprise, stepping back from the front of her cage as Sherlock's words sank in.

"So soon?" John stepped close enough to Sherlock that the front of his shirt brushed against Sherlock's sleeve, tickling against his stomach. John was keeping his voice low to not be overheard by the excitedly murmuring Alphas in the cages around them, but pressed so close to Sherlock, it was nearly impossible for the taller man to not hear John's question.

"Why wait?" Sherlock returned. "There is no reason for us to stay around and hope that I don't lose any more fights."  
  
"Speaking of the fights... what were you doing tonight? You didn't even attempt to hit back."  
  
"I didn't think I needed to initially. I wanted to wear him out and take him down with a minimum of moves once he was exhausted. What if I'd broken a knuckle or another bone in my hand trying to deliver a blow hard enough to bring him to the floor? Would you be able to bandage it with a vending machine sandwich wrapper and some strips from your blankets?" Sherlock shrugged lightly, keeping his pale blue-green eyes locked on John's face, studying his Mate. "I'm surprised that you would ask me to engage, considering that it would greatly increase my risk of being injured."

 "Dancing around them didn't work either, though."

 "No." Sherlock sounded annoyed. "The guards saw to that. Assuming we don't make our escape tomorrow morning, during the next fight I will have to engage or risk another loss. Given the choice between being shot where I'm laying or having a broken hand, I'll take the broken hand."

 - - - - -

 John had trouble sleeping that night, despite the exhaustion resulting from the stress of the last two days. After being too chilly the night before, he found he was too hot that night. He wondered if the guards had messed with the thermostat before leaving that night, adding just another layer of discomfort into the lives of their prisoners.

 He tossed and turned on his thin pallet of blankets and kept folding and refolding his jacket under his head in an attempt to get comfortable. On the other side of the cage, Sherlock had folded himself small as he leaned against the bars of the cage and seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be fast asleep. John envied him his rest as he tossed restlessly for the fourth hour of the interminably long night, wondering briefly if it would be worth it to strip down to his vest to attempt to get cool enough to actually sleep.

 It was a relief we he heard the Alphas waking up and beginning their morning exercises hours later. He could finally stop pretending to sleep and get up from the floor. He found he was even more stiff that morning than he'd been the previous morning and had to move slowly to avoid muscle twinges.

 A glance at Sherlock showed the tall man was still asleep and that his facial injuries from the night before had achieved some truly beautiful and impressive bruising. His face now matched the faces of better than half the imprisoned Alphas, decorated in shades of dark blue and purple. John kept quiet as he crouched in front of Sherlock to survey the wounds, preferring to let the other man sleep as long as possible, especially since he'd missed a night of sleep and then had to fight someone twice his size.

 John watched the Alphas working out absently, noting some stiffness in the ones who'd fought the night before. The Alpha in shorts and a vest who'd been nearly beaten to death moved with agonizing slowness, not even bothering to work out and only attempting to stretch some of the pain and stiffness out of his limbs. He looked like he'd been in a car accident, his body liberally covered in dark bruises and red lacerations.

 John shook his head as he turned away from that man; no one had offered the badly injured man any help the night before. It seemed he was expected to live or die on his own. A glance back at the still-sleeping Sherlock made John's stomach twist; what if Sherlock had been the one beaten to within an inch of his life? What if he were the one leaning unsteadily against the bars of his cage as he attempted to stretch his bruised - possibly broken, judging by the pained gasps that the Alpha was making - ribs with no bandaging or pain medication to ease the strain on his body?

 John wandered slowly closer to his Mate, mouth twisting as he realized how helpless they were here. He could do nothing to help Sherlock and, until they had succeeded in getting the adrenaline, they couldn't leave. John realized he was crouched just in front of the other man, his hand hovering close to the swelling on Sherlock's left cheekbone, wanting to touch but not quite daring to in case he caused more pain to the other man.

 A sharp noise made John jump, rising to his feet and spinning as he identified the loud clatter as the doors to the loading area opening. The Alphas all stopped their workouts, turning to watch as the chatting groups of guards walked into the main body of the ASDA building, pushing trolleys loaded down with bags of food. John felt someone just beside him and turned his head, glancing over at Sherlock. Obviously, the sound of the guards coming in had woken him and now his tall Mate stood silently studying the men coming into the building.

 "I'll start another fight on the way to the washroom." Sherlock's voice was a bare whisper and John had to strain to hear him over the raucous conversations of the guards. Across the building, Aileen was watching them with sharp eyes, obviously wishing she knew what was being said. "As soon as the guards turn to me, I want you to go after one of them. The other Alphas will almost certainly join in as soon as they see us both fighting, and between the four of us, we should be able to disarm all eight guards and take their keys. We can lock them into the empty cages before we begin freeing the other Alphas. We'll get the adrenaline last, once we've gotten everyone out of their cages and just before we make our escape."

 John nodded faintly, reaching down to pick his jacket up off the floor and shrug into it despite still feeling far too hot to be comfortable even in his button-up. If they were leaving today, he wanted his jacket with him.

 Sherlock's sharp hiss made John look up, eyes sweeping the building as he tried to understand what had alarmed the other man. It took him only seconds to see the problem: four more guards had just flowed into the ASDA building followed by Littleton, and walking at the skeletally thin man's side was Victor Trevor.


	14. Chapter 14

John felt a new rush of heat across his skin as he stared through the bars of the cage at Victor walking calmly beside Littleton. The thin man was gesturing around the wide open ASDA building with one skeletal hand and Victor was following his gesture, nodding slowly as he took everything in. For a moment, Victor's eyes met John's and Victor froze, his expression turning alarmed for a moment. Littleton noticed and paused mid-word, turning to follow Victor's gaze.

 "Oh, you've found our other Omega." Littleton's voice carried across the building. As his words sank in, the Alphas in their cages went absolutely still, their expressions going from mildly curious to predatory in an instant, eyes turning to reassess Victor. "Interesting. I didn't know Omegas could sense one another. Yes, that's John and his Alpha, Scott. John will be the one you'll be fighting tonight."

 John went absolutely still as his stomach dropped out, leaving him feeling hollow and echoing. Fighting? He would be fighting _tonight?_

 He heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath and Littleton smiled over at them, his expression full of avarice as he drank in the betrayal in Sherlock's expression and the undeniable shock in John's.

 "You _did_ sign a contract, Mr. Hope. I own you... and through you, I own your Omega. We've never managed to have a fight between two Omegas before. I imagine the betting pool will be sizeable, even if the best the attendees can hope for is a slap fight." Victor threw a sorrowful glance towards Sherlock and John before Littleton gave him a gentle shove between his shoulder blades and they were moving again, heading towards a cage across the building from John and Sherlock's cage.

 John turned to look over at Sherlock but the taller man wasn't looking back at him. Instead, Sherlock was pacing the narrow confines of the cage, his body shaking with rage.

 "Sherlock." John's voice was a low whisper, but it didn't even slow the other man's twitchy pacing. "Sherlock. This doesn't change anything. We still -"

 "It changes _everything_." Sherlock's words were spoken in a furious whisper, the anger in them evident even at their low pitch. John knew the anger wasn't directed at _him,_ but he cringed slightly anyway; he hadn't seen Sherlock this incensed in a long time. "I could handle the risk to my own life, but knowing that _you'll_ be fighting and running the risk of the three-strikes rule Littleton has enacted for all his prisoners... I won't let this stand."

 "We can't try to break free with _Littleton_ here," John pointed out, nodding at the four extra guards trailing along behind the skeletally thin man as he wandered through the forest of cages, looking thoughtfully at his Alphas. "We'll just have to wait until tomorrow morning to make our attempt."

"I'm going to press the panic button." Sherlock was already fumbling with his trouser pocket and John lunged for him, wrapping his fingers tightly around Sherlock's slim wrist.  
"Don't you dare." John's voice was low and dangerous and it made Sherlock freeze with his hand half in his hip pocket. Slowly, Sherlock turned to meet John's eyes, taking in his Mate's determined expression and the thin line of John's mouth. Eventually, he drew his empty hand from his pocket, and John gentled his grip on Sherlock's wrist. "I can fight, Sherlock; I've been fighting most of my life. I'm not scared of Victor; I can take him easily. The only problem will be holding back enough that they don't suspect I'm as well-trained as I am. But I _will_ fight tonight."

 Sherlock's shoulders slumped at John's words and his full lips turned down slightly as he acknowledged the truth in what John had said. Finally, he gave a small shake of his head and turned away, pulling free of John's grip to begin pacing their small prison once more. John watched the fitful movements until he felt sure that Sherlock wasn't going to try to go for Ford's panic button again. Reassured that he'd convinced his Mate, he turned around to survey the other prisoners only to find Littleton standing at the bars of their cage, watching Sherlock with curious eyes. John jumped slightly, body going tight at the surprise of having the skeletal man standing so close.

 "He seems so full of energy," Littleton observed, his pale blue eyes tracking Sherlock's movements. "Hard to believe that he wasn't a better fighter."

 "He was holding back." John's words were clipped and he fought to sound more submissive. "He can fight."

 Littleton's eyes slid to John, the curiousness melting away into derision. "I'm sure _he_ can." John didn't miss the emphasis and he had to fight to keep his jaw from clenching. He could feel the humorless smile tipping up the corners of his mouth, though, and didn't bother trying to conceal it.

 "I might surprise you."

 Littleton's gaze sharpened, scanning up and down John's face and body for a moment. Then he shook his head slightly, turning away. "I doubt it."

 The thin man brushed his hands lightly down the front of his bespoke suit as if the conversation with John had in some way soiled it before he walked away, his bodyguards trailing after him like well-trained hounds, and John was left alone with his pacing Mate.

 The guards taking Alphas to the washrooms came to John and Sherlock's cage not long after that, and John was taut with tension the entire walk across the building, waiting for Sherlock to try and pick a fight despite Littleton and his four guards still wandering through the prison cages like visitors enjoying a day trip at a zoo. Thankfully, though, Sherlock was quiet and obedient that morning, following the other two fighters into the washrooms and stripping down without complaint to take a shower.

 John didn't give much through to the lack of privacy. It wasn't much worse than Army showers, after all, although usually the men with weapons were your friends and not your captors. Regardless, the water was hot and there was plenty of it. The soap was cheap, but it lathered well enough for John to feel like he no longer had a layer of sweat and grime on his skin by the end of his shower, and the pleasure of pissing in an actual loo rather than a metal bucket was almost blissful.

 However, seeing Sherlock naked made John's stomach twist; the bruising from his fight the night before was extensive and horrific. A few scrapes had worrisome redness and swelling around them, and John wished for anything to help ease Sherlock's discomfort, even just paracetemol and some antibiotic cream. Unfortunately, the hot showers were the only luxury they were allowed, and John hoped that the cheap soap would at least help clean some of the detritus off the reddening wounds.

 It was almost depressing to have to get dressed at the end of it in his same dirty, wrinkled clothes and march back to the cage he shared with Sherlock. Their bucket had been emptied and two plastic grocery sacks were set just inside the cage door. Littleton and his guards were gone, as well, but it was too late to try anything at that point; they had been the last group to head to the washrooms and the guards were packing up to leave for the day.

 As soon as the Alphas were alone once again, Aileen was at the side of her cage and calling across the building.

 "Hey. Hey! Was it because of Littleton? Is that why you didn't try anything?"

 Sherlock was chewing morosely at the vending machine sandwich from his shopping bag and didn't even bother to glance up at her. After a moment, John stood up and went to the front of the cage, meeting Aileen's eyes across the intruding cage bars.

 "Yeah. It was too risky with the added guards. We feel fairly confident that we could take the four marching us to the washrooms and that by the time the others were able to get to us, we'd be ready for them... but having four extra guards would have been too risky. If we'd failed, they would have been on alert for more escape attempts."

 "I figured that." Aileen glanced over to her left and John followed her gaze, unsurprised to see it was Victor Trevor drawing her attention. His cage was just beside Aileen's, making it very easy for her to get a good look at him, not that there was that much to see at the moment: he was sitting on the pile of blankets inside his cage, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins, and head bowed. John chewed his lower lip for a second and then sighed, shifting over a bit to get a better view of the other Omega.

 "Victor. Victor!" His call was too loud for Victor to ignore and slowly the man raised his head from his knees, his deep-set eyes sad and empty as he looked at John. "What the hell are you doing here?"

 Aileen's eyes widened slightly and she glanced between John and Victor, understanding sweeping over her face. The other Alphas were all slowly looking up from their own meals, curiosity plain on every face.

 Victor didn't bother standing, staring at John with sorrowful eyes and a downturned mouth. "Sherrinford told me I _had_ to come. I wasn't able to secure an heir, despite his efforts to put me in front of a potential Alpha at the right point in my breeding cycle, so the least I could do was to help the two of you secure the adrenaline."

 John gripped the bars of the cage hard enough to hurt his fingers, his fury at Ford rising like a tidal wave inside of him. Heat flushed through his body, quivering and unpleasant. Ford had given them yet _another_ victim to try and get out of the mess of Littleton's fighting ring. Of course, there was no way for Ford to know that John and Sherlock intended to free all the prisoners, but he had to have known that they would never leave Victor behind.

 "Great. Just great." John's words were acidic, the heat in them obvious even in Victor's state of obvious depression. The other man sat up straighter, his gaze sharpening as he shifted to try and get a better look at John.

 "Has it started yet?"

 The words were so random that John was momentarily distracted from his ire. He blinked several times as he tried to make sense of Victor's question, and then his face twisted as he acknowledged how completely bizarre the question was. "What?"

 "Your Heat."

 John gave a soft snort. "No. Not for at least another month, thank God."

 "Oh, I doubt that." Victor pushed to his feet slowly, wrapping his own long fingers around his cage bars as he looked across at John. "Have you never spent much time around other Omegas?"

 "No time, really." John frowned, not following what Victor was trying to say. "What does that have to do with anything?"

 "If an Omega is exposed to another Omega in Heat, it brings their Heat on early. It's part of why the Alphas were so upset 150 years ago when it was decided that an Alpha could no longer have a harem of Omegas; it used to be that when one Omega went into Heat, the others in the harem would be dragged along within a week or two. An Alpha could breed one Omega after another and be assured of the continuation of their line through their progeny. Even if one Omega didn't carry to term, there would be one or two more who would be pregnant at the same time and it was likely at least one of them would be able to successfully birth their baby." Victor paused, shaking his head slowly. "I was only in early Heat, but the hormones in the air would've been enough to speed your own Heat along. You've had over a week for your own hormones to build. You're right on track for early Heat. Aren't you feeling it?"

 John was taking shallow gasps of air, desperately wanting to deny Victor's insinuations, but his voice was caught in a choking lump in his throat. He could feel Sherlock moving up behind him, and horror washed through him as he realized just _how_ aware of Sherlock he actually was. He could feel his Mate's warmth like a fire along his side, pulsing and enticing. He could fucking _smell_ Sherlock in a way that he usually only could when he was at the beginning of his Heat.

 Sherlock was staring at John hard, his eyes taking in everything with his usual unerring attention to detail and John turned to meet Sherlock's gaze. Understanding swept over Sherlock's face and his hand was scrambling for his hip pocket again.

 "Don't." John's voice was not nearly as strong as it had been earlier that morning. "Don't, Sherlock. We have at least another day or two before it starts properly. We have time."

 Sherlock was breathing as if he'd just been running, and there was a faint tremor running through the hand resting at his hip pocket. He was staring at John, the bruising and swelling from the night before failing to hide the desperation in his face.

 "We have time," John repeated, and slowly Sherlock lowered his hand from his pocket.

 "Tomorrow morning, no matter what."

 "All right." John leaned back against the cage bars, enjoying the coolness of the metal against his overheated skin. "Tomorrow morning, no matter what."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My laptop went down last Thursday and it looked unlikely I'd be able to update this week. Thankfully, the parts came in on Monday and the tech made it out Monday afternoon, so the laptop is working again and we're updating on schedule. I do recommend that you follow or bookmark my Tumblr blog (erynnem22.tumblr.com) to keep abreast of updates or delays to the updating schedule.


	15. Chapter 15

_'There's still time,'_ John told himself, pacing from one side of the cage to the other. Sherlock sat silent and staring, his pale eyes never leaving his restlessly moving Mate.   
  
The day had passed with agonizing slowness. Usually when John felt the subtle tingle of a Heat beginning, he would double-check that there was enough bottled water and single-serve snacks stashed around the flat to ensure they both survived the Heat without too much loss of bodily integrity. He would set a collection of towels in the bathroom for the previous few minutes when the intense need for sex abated and they were able to shower. He would call the clinic he worked at part-time and send a text to Lestrade and let everyone know that he would be indisposed for the next few days. He'd call and cancel any outstanding appointments he might have. He would set everything in order.

 But he was stuck in a cage, and the only thing he could do was pace and shoot occasional angry glances towards Victor Trevor across the large open building. For his own part, the other Omega looked ashamed of himself as he watched John moving fitfully back and forth across the cage he shared with Sherlock. There had been no way for Victor to know that John would end up in Heat, trapped in a cage, and forced into a fighting ring, but it didn't make John feel any less murderous each time he looked at Victor's hangdog expression.

 By the time the guards showed up that evening to start loading that nights entertainment into the van, John felt ready to tear the arms off the guards himself. He could feel his nostrils flaring with each hard breath he took and the effort to keep from himself from staring angry holes through each guard made the muscles in his neck tighten to the point of pain. Sherlock seemed to realize what the problem was before the guard approached their cage to release them, and he placed one too-warm hand against John's lower back.

 "Keep your head down. They'll think your strange behavior is just nerves." Sherlock's voice was a low rumble, and it made John's stomach clench deliciously; that low timbre and familiar cadence normally comforted him, but at the moment, it teased within his brain with the promise of things to come. John's breath shuddered out unevenly and Sherlock's hand twitched against John's back. "And, for God's sake, try not to... to... we both need to _concentrate._ "

 "Can't really turn this off, you know," John bit out, but he understood what Sherlock was saying; at least try not to act any more willing and interested than necessary. John tamped down on his natural desire to curl close to his Mate and share quiet intimacy while the hormonal load in his body built to the tipping point of full Heat. He pulled himself up, clenching his hands at his sides, and dropped his eyes to the toes of his shoes until the guard came to march the pair of them to the van.

 Being in the van with eight other Alphas was horrible, John quickly found. The scent of Alpha was choking, gagging, overwhelming. John groaned softly once the cargo doors of the van slammed shut and he was trapped within, the thick scent of Alpha washing over him and nearly drowning him with its intensity. He twisted on Sherlock's lap, pressing his nose into the curls on the crown of Sherlock's head and drawing in deep, desperate breaths, concentrating on the scent of Sherlock's scalp and the familiar woody scent of Sherlock's shampoo and conditioner.

 "Is he okay?" It was Aileen, speaking from the blackness of the cargo area around them.

 "He is for now," Sherlock said, his zip tied hands coming up to rub lightly up and down John's ribs in a clumsy attempt to soothe the other man. "It's just... overwhelming to be in a cargo van with this many Alphas when he's so close to full Heat."

 "Think it's bad for him," an unfamiliar male voice muttered bitterly, "I've got half a stiffy here. How'm I supposed to fight with this?"

 "Shut up!" Aileen's voice was like the crack of a whip, coming faster even than Sherlock's recrimination. "Have some sympathy, Mark."

 The Alpha muttered something but kept any further comments to himself.

 "I'm sorry, John." Victor's voice made John's jaw clench, his body tightening in preparation of launching at Victor wherever he might be in the dark interior of the cargo area, but Sherlock's fingers gripped tightly to John's button-up, holding him from his attack.

 "Not now, Victor. Don't keep poking an injured bear or you're likely to lose your life in the fight tonight." Sherlock didn't sound any happier with Victor than John felt. Hearing his Mate's ire helped soothe something in John and he relaxed minutely, keeping his nose pressed into Sherlock's curls as the engine of the van turned over and they got underway. The position avoided any of Sherlock's bruises but immediately lessened the gagging scent of other Alphas.

 It was hard to keep his balance twisted half-way around on Sherlock's lap, but John managed. His only other option was to breathe the Alpha-thick air of the van, and John would rather fall on the floor of the van due to his precarious perch than subject himself to _that_.

 The wait for his fight with Victor was interminable. He didn't even notice which Alphas were lead out of the van each fight, let alone who was the victor and who was the loser. All his attention was focused on breathing in and out and filling his lungs and nose with the scent of Mate.

 When the guard finally came for John, he was so stiff from his half-twisted pose that he nearly fell onto his knees on the rough tarmac of the parking lot behind whatever derelict warehouse was their battleground for the night. Sherlock climbed down behind him - no showy leaps this time, not with the number of bruises and abrasions decorating his body from his own fight the night before - and he stopped a few scant inches back from his Mate, not daring to touch John with the guards standing so close but standing much closer to the other man than he normally would have done.

 John barely heard the familiar instructions to walk to the building to have his zip ties cut and to not try anything on pain of Tasing. He was staring down at the toes of his shoes again, the shapes vague in the starlit night; this parking lot didn't have any lights nearby, and it made it impossible to avoid potholes and rough patches in the tarmac. John stumbled repeatedly, righting himself each time automatically and without any real thought. He couldn't concentrate on anything but the slowly increasing warmth in his gut and the prickling sensitivity of his skin where it brushed against his clothes.  
  
The crowd was once again rumbling in curiosity when John and Sherlock were marched into the warehouse. Obviously, a fight between two Omegas was very exciting for them. John could hear men speaking as they came closer to the dog run in which he'd be fighting Victor.

 "Oh, _that_ Omega! I remember him!"

 "He's a lively one. Saw him nearly throw his guards off last night."

 "I want to raise my bet! Another fifty!"

 "Me, too. He'll take down anyone they stuff in the cage with him."  
  
A third guard approached through the crowd, taking up a position on Sherlock's side opposite the other guard who'd marched Sherlock into the warehouse. John was nudged towards the open door of the cage by his own guard and went numbly forward, hands opening and closing at his sides as he waited for Victor to arrive.

 "A fight between Omegas? This should be good for a laugh."

 John's muscles tightened to the point of pain. He _knew_ that cultured, subtly amused voice. Slowly he raised his eyes from the contemplation of his own shoes, eyes sweeping the crowd. He didn't have to search long. Ford had positioned himself at the very front of the crowd, barely a full metre away from John inside the dog run. He had his hands shoved into the hip pockets of his trousers and his legs spread in a wide, confident stance. He was staring into the cage at John, a razorblade smile on his face as he took in the whole spectacle.

 John fought with the urge to tear through the wires of the cage to get at Ford. He wanted to kill Ford more in that moment than he'd ever wanted to kill anyone in his life. His hated for Sherrinford Holmes eclipsed anything he'd felt for anyone before. Jim and Janine Moriarty, Mary Morstan, Sebastian Moran, Charles Augustus Magnussen... they were annoyances compared to the violence that was rising up in his chest at the sight of Sherrinford Holmes.

 Ford's dark blue eyes widened slightly as he took in the expression on John's face and his smile grew even sharper. He knew how John felt about him, and he _liked_ it.

 Even through the miasma of spilled blood in the cage and the distraction of Ford's mocking enjoyment of John's imprisonment, John could smell when Victor came close to the cage. All his senses were turned to the highest intensity as his body followed evolutionary paths meant to ensure he find his Mate and complete his cycle. That meant that the scent of another Omega was impossible to miss, even in a crowd of unwashed Beta bodies.

 The cage door slammed shut behind Victor and John slowly turned his head from his glaring match with Ford, a humorless smile twitching up the corners of his mouth as he spotted Victor cringing on the other side of the cage.

 "John, I'm so sorry - I didn't know... I didn't mean for -"

 John's hands were shaking a bit, the slow build of hormones making him feel unsteady and his anger at both Ford and Victor for complicating an already very complicated situation bleeding out of him, and he couldn't be sure of his first punch landing. Victor, however, had no training in either fighting or defending himself and didn't make any move to block John's uncoordinated punch. The impact of skin-on-skin made a satisfyingly sharp sound, and Victor stumbled back to rebound off the chain-link fencing, his slim fingers coming up to press against the spot on his jaw where John's fist had landed. He looked startled and unhappy, but not surprised. He had accepted the inevitability of their fight the same as John had; he just lacked any training to help him through it.

 John moved forward unerringly after the shrinking Victor, dropping a second still-uncoordinated but furious punch to Victor's cheek despite aiming for his nose. His shaking hands were making this fight more of a joke than a real challenge.

 The third punch dropped Victor to the ground, and John stood over Victor silently, chest heaving as he glared down at the other man for several long seconds, waiting to see if Victor was going to even attempt to rise and fight back. From the way Victor was curling into a fetal ball, though, it seemed obvious that the pampered and cosseted Omega had no intention of making any attempt at fighting back, and John turned slowly away, pacing back to the opposite side of the cage to wait for the guards to lead him out, deliberately turning his back to where he knew Ford was still standing.

 He realized the gathered crowd of men was laughing and glanced up, his face twisting in confusion. He watched one man mime a very clumsy punch towards another man who doubled over in laughter.

 Jesus, had he _really_ had that poor a showing? John glanced through the crowd, but not a single man looked impressed with the fight. Some looked disappointed in how their bets had come out, but most were laughing and pointing at John were he stood panting and trembling inside the dog run with the prone Victor at his feet.

 The cage door opened and one guard stepped in cautiously, keeping his eyes on John. He pulled his Taser from his belt and then paused, stepping forward to prod at Victor with the toe of his shoe. When the Omega only responded by curling into a tighter ball, the guard snorted and put the Taser back on his hip before leaning down to grip Victor by the shoulders of his jumper. He dragged the unprotesting man from the cage like that, leaving John alone for a few seconds. When another guard stepped forward to claim him, John was almost insulted to notice the lack of a Taser in the man's hands. He merely gestured at John as if John were a sheep in a field, dull and obedient. He hesitated to obey, eyes roving around the warehouse until they fell on Sherlock being held by two guards off to the side of the dog run. Silently and subtly, Sherlock gave the minutest shake of his head and John sighed, shoulders slumping. As usual, Sherlock was right; now was _not_ the time for a show of defiant force. If they were breaking out tomorrow morning - and they _had_ to - then John needed to continue his 'meek Omega' act.

 With a sigh, he stepped towards the guard gesturing at him and obeyed the gentle prods in his mid-back urging him towards the far wall of the warehouse and the exit door. He heard Sherlock falling into step behind him, still bracketed by two large guards. Of course, with Sherlock they took no chances. He was an Alpha, after all.

 With their wrists and ankles once more zip tied, John and Sherlock were shoved roughly into the back of the van. As soon as the doors slammed shut behind them, John realized he could hear soft, soothing murmurs coming from the blackness. It took him a second to recognize Aileen's voice, but once he did, he quickly realized to whom she had to be speaking.

 "Does it hurt badly? Here, I'm going to touch... shh, I won't hurt you any more, lamb."

 "He can throw a mean punch for an Omega going into Heat." Victor's tone was wry and slightly admiring. Only the press of Sherlock's bound hands to his hip prevented John from throwing himself across the cargo hold and trying to land another punch on the man. "Thankfully, he didn't do too much damage. I figured they wouldn't expect much out of fighting Omegas, so as soon as an opportunity presented itself for me to surrender, I laid down and stayed down."

 "Ah, but this spot here is swelling." There was a rustle as Aileen shifted on the long bench bolted to the wall of the van, undoubtedly moving closer to Victor. "It feels like you'll have a real beauty of a black eye by tomorrow."

 "Like I said, he throws a mean punch for an Omega going into Heat."

 "Speaking of that." There was the sound of rustling clothes again and Aileen's voice came to John clearer; she'd obviously turned towards John and Sherlock's side of the van once more. "I've never been around an Omega who's going into their Heat, but as I understand from my limited book-learning, once they start showing symptoms of impending Heat, there are at most hours before they go into _full_ Heat. Now, it'll obviously be less intense for all of the other Alphas in their cages since John is a Mated Omega, but I don't fancy several days of hormonal misery while the two of you go at it. And that's assuming Littleton doesn't break you up the first time you knot -"

 "We aren't staying past tomorrow morning." Sherlock's voice as he interrupted Aileen was quiet but confident, and it changed the nervous atmosphere in the back of the cargo van instantly. John could almost feel the Alphas' shift in attention as they centered themselves on Sherlock's certainty. "When they take John and I out of our cage to lead us to the washrooms tomorrow morning, we'll attack. I'm hoping that the other Alphas in our group will attack their guards, as well, when they see John and I fighting."

 "We'll spread the word tonight," Aileen said, and there were murmurs of agreement from the other Alphas. "Everyone will be ready in the morning." She paused and then added in a doubtful tone, "This won't be like this morning, will it? If Littleton shows up again, you'll still fight?"

 "We have to. John can't wait another day." There was no missing the tension in Sherlock's voice, and John shifted uncomfortably on his Mate's lap. As discomfiting as the approaching Heat was for him, he could only imagine what it had to be like for Sherlock who was in the middle of a case and trying desperately to keep both himself and his Mate alive. It was probably the very worst of tortures, and John bit back another wave of annoyance that it had to have happened _now_.

 "All right." The doubt was gone from Aileen's voice, leaving behind determination. "Tomorrow morning then. We'll all be ready."


	16. Chapter 16

That night was even worse for John than the night before had been. He felt like he was holding on by a fraying thread and didn't even attempt to lay down to sleep, choosing instead to lean his back against the bars along one side of the cage. Sherlock sat opposite him, teeth clenched as he fought to breathe evenly and avoid looking directly at his Mate.

 For hours in the slow drag of the night, John and Sherlock were kept company by the low murmur of Aileen and Victor's voices from their cages across the floor, and John had to fight the urge to giggle as he remembered the intimate tones the two had taken with one another; it looked like Victor would be getting his Alpha and his heirs after all. Being forced into the fighting ring by Ford had turned into one of the best things that could've happened to Victor.

 The urge to giggle dissipated in a wave of fury. Ford. That bastard... John's hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles digging into the concrete floor beneath them. Ah, what he wouldn't like to do to Sherrinford Holmes, given a chance. John had to wonder how much Ford knew about Omega biology. Had he known that being around another Omega in early Heat would trigger John's Heat? Is that why he had been so insistent that Sherlock and John rush into joining the fighting ring? He had obviously been amused at seeing John locked in the dog run the evening before, but how far did his machinations of the situation extend?

 John shifted against the cold bars of the cage, wishing he could take off his button-up at the very least. Sometime in the darkest hours of the night, not long after Victor and Aileen finally went to sleep and stopped their soft murmurs, he had begun sweating. It wasn't bad yet, gathering like a light dew on his upper lip and occasionally tickling its way down his spine, but John felt sure things would only get worse. His body was keyed up on natural adrenaline from being in such a precarious position with his Heat almost certainly only hours away, the desire to fight or flee almost overwhelming. He longed to be back in the flat he and Sherlock shared, relaxing in his armchair and watching Sherlock wandering through the sitting room with a book in his hands or perching on a chair at the kitchen table as he studied slides under his microscope.

 Early Heat in their flat was calm and even pleasant. He was able to enjoy the slow, subtle rise of hormones in peace. He could take a cool shower to ward off some of the incipient warmth radiating out of his skin and drink a cup of tea or have some toast to ensure steady energy as his body slowly moved away from his normal status and his quiescent Omega organs switched online.

 Instead, he was locked in a cage in a large room absolutely stuffed full of strange Alphas. He was as unsafe as an Omega in early Heat could be, and his body reacted with stress hormones. The Heat and the stress competed for the lead role in his body, and he was left sweating and twitching in discomfort as the long, silent hours of the night dragged past.

 It was nearly dawn, the sun just barely beginning to turn the black sky grey through the skylights overhead, when John realized he'd been staring unabashedly at Sherlock for the last several minutes. It wasn't so much that he was undressing his Mate with his eyes as he was staring pointedly and almost angrily at Sherlock who was still keeping his head turned firmly away from John.

 "John."

 The single word was spoken in a whisper, but John could hear the strain in Sherlock's voice. He was obviously struggling with John's intense regard and John tried to look away from the slim, taut form on the other side of their shared cage. He couldn't seem to drag his eyes away, though, no matter how stridently he ordered himself to do it. It was almost a blessing to hear the heavy opening thunk of the door leading into the loading area. The noise allowed John to finally break the intense stare-down with Sherlock and he heard the other man release a soft, relieved sigh as his Mate's gaze was drawn away.

 Just like the last few mornings, the guards walked into the huge, sprawling ASDA building chatting and moving calmly, a couple of men pushing carts loaded down with the bags of cheap, tasteless food that the captive Alphas always received. It took a lot of effort, but John was able to keep his eyes off of Sherlock behind him and on the guards as they moved through the building.

 The other Alphas were subdued, their expressions closed off as the guards took them in groups of four to the loo.

 "Hurry it up!" John heard one of the guards shout, the man's voice echoing off the cinder block walls. "Littleton wanted us to clear out tonight's warehouse this morning, too."

 "He should hire maids!" another guard replied, and there was a ripple of laughter and grumbling through the rest of the heavily muscled men.

 John felt the warmth of Sherlock standing just behind him and locked both hands firmly to the bars of the cage to stop himself turning to press himself into the familiar planes and ridges of the taller man's body. Time was definitely running out. If they _didn't_ escape this morning, they would have to press the panic button Ford had provided them. John clenched his teeth until they ached; he didn't want Ford's help. He didn't want _anything_ from Sherlock's eldest brother... except maybe the satisfaction of knocking him to the ground.

 "They're in a hurry. They'll be distracted. This is perfect." Sherlock's voice was a low, subtle rumble just behind John. Even at its low timbre, though, John could hear the pleasure and excitement in it. Distracted guards might mean a slower reaction time. John had to agree; this could work in their favor.

 He noticed a pair of guards coming their way, chatting with one another as they gestured with the Tasers they held in their hands. They only cut their conversation off once the keys were in the lock to John and Sherlock's cage, both men putting on semi-serious expressions as they turned towards the prisoners.

 "Come on, you two; time to visit the washroom."

 Sherlock moved out first, standing with perfect calm between the two guards. They barely spared a glance towards John as he finally unclenched his hands from the cage bars and moved up behind them. He was an Omega, and as they had seen the night before, in a fight he shook like a man in need of a drink. He wasn't a threat.

 John trailed a couple of steps behind the guards and Sherlock, glancing around the building and taking in the tense, expectant expressions on the faces of the Alphas they passed. He felt a swell of pleasure when he saw that their little washroom group included not only Aileen but also Alfred, the huge Alpha who had taken Sherlock down two nights before. Both of them threw quick, questioning glances at Sherlock as their two groups of guards and prisoners joined together, and then they were moving across the building and towards the washrooms, leaving the forest of prison cages and watching Alphas behind as their shoes clicked and scuffed across the concrete floor towards the far wall.

 They were nearly at the washrooms, the off-white cinderblock wall looming almost close enough to lean out and kick, when Sherlock said, "Now!"

 John didn't hesitate, lifting one foot and driving it into the back of the knee of the guard just ahead of him. The man screamed as his leg crumpled beneath him but John was already moving to snatch the Taser from his hand. He took great pleasure in pressing it to the guards temple and triggering the device, listening to the choking sounds the guard made as the electricity caused his muscles to lock up.

 John glanced up and was pleased to see that the other three guards were likewise subdued and the three Alphas were holding onto their own newly liberated Tasers, Sherlock with one hand pressed to his ribs where John knew some truly impressive bruising had sprouted in the last two days. Across the building, there was the sound of fighting as the guards who had been taking out toilet buckets and putting in bags of food attempted to hold off the Alphas who had abruptly turned on them at the sound of Sherlock's group fighting their own contingent of guards.

 Sherlock broke into a run, his long legs eating up the distance as he crossed the building to help with the four remaining guards, and John followed without prompting. He heard Aileen and Alfred following behind him, Alfred's steps in his heavy boots sounding like large rocks dropped from ledges.

 By the time they crossed the building and maneuvered through the cages, though, the four remaining guards were subdued. The four Alphas who had taken them down were already holding their Tasers and looking pleased.

 "Go through their pockets." Sherlock gestured towards one of the guards with his Taser, pale eyes sweeping the building as he spoke. "We need their keys, mobiles, and any other weapons they have on them. Put them in the cages once you're sure they're clean. Aileen and Alfred, head back to the four we took out and do the same to them. We need to move as quickly as possible. If Littleton was expecting them to clean a warehouse this morning, there's no way of knowing how long they can stay here without raising alarm. Besides, blows to the head almost never leave a victim unconscious for more than a few minutes, unless you've done enough damage to their brain for it to be permanent. It's only in movies that knocking someone out has any use."

 "Really?" Aileen asked, sounding surprised.

 "Of course. Now get across to the other guards before they start waking up."

 The Alphas moved to obey him without argument, their movements quick as they riffled through pockets and pulled Tasers and keys free from belts. Within seconds, the four guards nearest the imprisoned Alphas had been shoved into the now-empty cages and the doors slammed shut. Alfred was breathing heavily and dragging two guards behind him, his massive hands locked around an ankle each on the guards.

 The Alphas with keys had already begun unlocking cage doors without having to be told and the newly freed Alphas weren't waiting around to say 'thanks.' They ran for the doors leading to the loading area with wild determination, barely giving the Alphas ahead of them enough time to get through the doors before shoving through themselves. Obviously, they'd taken to heart Sherlock's warnings of time being of the essence.

 Alfred deposited both his guards into a single cage, pulling the door shut as he exited with a smirk twitching at his lips. He headed back towards Aileen where she was keeping an eye on the other two downed guards, Sherlock and John just behind him. Nearly all the caged Alphas had been freed and their job in the ASDA building was nearly done.

 John heard a soft groan from one of the guards at Aileen's feet before she leaned down, pressing the Taser to the center of his chest with an angry, toothy smile on her face. The man gurgled unpleasantly before going still again and Aileen stepped back slowly, her body language making it obvious that she would have liked to press the Taser to the guard again. "Not so nice when you're on the other end, is it?"

 "Last two," Alfred said, leaning down to wrap his massive hands around an ankle of each guard. "Once they're in a cage, I'm leaving. That okay with you chaps?"

 "Completely." Sherlock glanced back towards the cages behind them and John followed his gaze. Every cage was empty of Alpha prisoners. Except for a single Alpha tossing down a set of keys and heading towards the loading bay doors, there was no one left in the building but the caged guards - beginning to twitch and groan as they came to - and their small group near the washrooms.

 John raised an eyebrow as he amended his earlier assessment. No one left but their small group and Victor Trevor, hovering off to one side and trying to look as invisible as possible. He caught John's eye for a moment and his face paled noticeably before  he looked down at the cement floor.

 "If you've got them," Aileen said, gesturing with her Taser at the guards, "then I'll be leaving. Promised Victor I'd see him safely home."

 John drew in a breath to say something waspish, his anger at Victor still bubbling in his stomach, when he realized he could feel a trickle of something leaking into his pants. His jaw tightened so sharply that his teeth ached and Sherlock's head whipped around from his contemplation of the nearby cinder block wall and the painted door that presumably led to the lab.

 Aileen took a breath to say something else and her entire body went tight, her pupils blowing wide in the space of seconds as the undeniable scent of Omega in Heat filtered through her nose and hit her brain like a runaway train.

 John didn't have a chance to react before Sherlock had grabbed him by one arm and pulled John roughly behind his taller frame, putting himself between John and Aileen. He crouched slightly, obviously ready to throw himself at Aileen if she so much as twitched in John's direction.

 But the other Alpha was backing away, one hand pressed over her nose and the other extended towards Sherlock in an I-mean-no-harm gesture.

 "I'm leaving. We're all leaving. Get your Omega home, Scott."

 There was a pause as Sherlock absorbed her words, his body straightening from his protective crouch slowly. Aileen was still backing away with one hand clamped over her nose, and across the warehouse, Alfred was heading out the loading area doors, unaware of the little drama playing out behind him.

 "Sherlock." John's voice came out a tight, dry whisper. He reached out to tug lightly at the back of Sherlock's button-up, urging his Mate away from the retreating Alpha and towards the door that would lead to the lab where the adrenaline was being synthesized or at least stored. "We have to go. We have to go _now._ "

 Sherlock turned away, giving his back to Aileen and Victor as the two joined up and made their own escapes. John watched the muscles in Sherlock's jaw tick, saw the bob of Sherlock's Adam's apple as he swallowed, saw the drowning blackness of Sherlock's pupils eclipsing the pale blue-green of his eyes. Time was up.

 "Stay close, John. But... don't touch me."

 Sherlock moved past the other man and over to the door painted to blend into the cinder block wall, his hands shaking like a junkie in desperate need of a fix as he raised them to the door handle. John followed a step behind him, aware that his pants were becoming damper as each step allowed more of his body's natural lubrication to slowly trickle free of him. Sherlock was struggling with the door handle, his trembling hands making it almost impossible for him to work it. John reached forward, intending to help, but Sherlock jerked his hands away as soon as John's came near.

 "Don't." The word was just this side of desperate, and John met Sherlock's eyes for a brief second before the taller man shut them. "Don't touch me. I'm... John, I'm _trying._ But if you _touch me..._ "

 "Right. Right. Okay." John took a scant step back, pressing his hands against his thighs. This was a questionable improvement as he began to gently stroke his palms back and forth along the material of his trousers, the slow caressing movement incredibly pleasant.

 "For God's sake." The words were groaned, Sherlock watching John's slowly sliding hands against the tan of his trousers for a brief moment before turning his back firmly on his Mate to grasp the door handle firmly, twist it, and pull the door open. He paused for a second before stepping in, throwing one last look back at John. "Stay close. Just don't touch me."

 "I'll try," John murmured, not trusting his own rising hormones enough to promise his good behavior. He followed behind Sherlock, hands rubbing, rubbing, rubbing at his thighs.

  



	17. Chapter 17

The scent of bleach and chemicals was the same as the first time John had stepped beyond the camouflaged door painted to match the wall near the washrooms. This time, though, tension and desire were thrumming through him in equal amounts, making him numb to anything in the short hallway besides Sherlock's tall, slim form stalking ahead of him.

 There was unbelievable grace in every twist of Sherlock's head on his long neck, each clench of the muscles in his forearms - visible thanks to the rolled up shirtsleeves, bless them - as he gestured for John to stay back while he looked around the sharp curve to the left at the other end of the hall, in the scuff of his shoes across the cement floor as he slid around the corner. John leaned one shoulder against the unpainted cinderblock to the left of the door they'd just come through, taking a moment to try and collect himself. This level of distraction was likely to get them both killed. He was so focused on Sherlock that, should someone come up behind him, he would never hear the approaching danger until it was too late.

 Hormones, damn them, were utterly cocking up the entire morning. In a sane world, they would have been able to choose their time with more care and break into the lab to steal the experimental adrenaline when they were both at their peak. Of course, in a _sane_ world, they would never have had to join the fighting ring in the first place. They would never have owed Sherrinford Holmes a favor.

 But, the world was decidedly _in_ sane lately, and John was leaning his shoulder into cold cinderblocks while some part of his mind worked over memories of the last Heat he'd shared with Sherlock five months earlier and the rest of his mind contemplated why it wouldn't be _that_ bad if they happened to end up knotted together in the lab since, after all, the guards were all safely locked up in the cages outside this small, cozy hallway.

 "John." The faint annoyance in his voice was impossible to miss, echoing off the unpainted cinderblock walls and rough cement floor, but John trailed after Sherlock without even the faintest buzz of return anger. Everything in him was pushing him to please his Mate and ensure a successful coupling during his Heat, and not even the not-at-all subtle tone of 'stop being an idiot' in Sherlock's voice could pull John away from his biological imperative at the moment.

 John stepped around the sharp curve in the hall and stopped, eyebrows raising slightly. _This_ was the secret laboratory creating the new synthetic adrenaline for which Ford had been clamouring? It wasn't much more than a long workbench with a collection of beakers, test tubes in a series of racks, a centrifuge, and a mini fridge. It wasn't any more impressive than the kitchen table at their flat.

 "Small operation." The words were a low murmur, but Sherlock caught them anyway. He gave a soft, snorting laugh as he moved over to the mini fridge, pulling it open with confidence. The tremor was gone from his hands now that John was on the other side of a room and now that his goal was directly in front of him, pushing back the Alpha urgency to breed with his Mate.

 Sherlock drew out two syringes filled with a clear liquid, already fitted with capped needles. John moved closer to the taller man, staring at the innocuous syringes held in the large palms, eyes sliding from syringe to slim fingers over and over even as he tried to concentrate on the task at hand the way Sherlock seemed able to do.

 "They already have needles on."

 "They must have planned to use at least one of these tonight." Sherlock clenched the syringes firmly in his hand, jaw tightening as the implications of the ready needles pressed down on the both of them. They had seen what happened to an Alpha given an injection of the adrenaline. Sherlock, himself, was a roadmap of bruises and scrapes thanks to Alfred's reaction to the adrenaline. If Littleton had meant an Alpha to have a dose of the experimental adrenaline that evening, it was likely one Alpha would not have walked out of the dog cage at the end of their fight.

 John took another step closer, his elbow brushing against the top of Sherlock's hip as he leaned to peer closely at the innocuous-seeming synthetic adrenaline in the syringe. The simple touch sent a bolt of longing through his body that was painful in its strength and John's breath stopped.

 Sherlock's reaction was even more extreme. His breath came out in a helpless, strained whine and he turned towards John, his empty hand coming up to cup roughly at the back of John's head and pull John closer even as Sherlock's head dipped down, lips brushing against John's with trembling intensity. John didn't even attempt to resist; he wanted the kiss as much as Sherlock, if not even more so. The familiarity of his Mate's mouth was soothing and exciting in equal parts and John didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around Sherlock's lower back, jerking the taller man roughly to him until their hips met bruisingly, bone clashing with bone. Neither man minded the rough contact, pressing even closer despite the discomfort.

 The kisses soothed the ache in John's lower body, promising good things to come. Resisting his Heat for the last 24 hours had been nearly as ugly as the first time he'd gone into Heat at age 14. It had been unfamiliar and frightening in its uncontrolled force, taking John away from his normal life and thrusting him into a sweating, aching world that centered around an unfillable void within him. He had spent four days in the closest approximation to Hell that he'd ever experienced, even worse than the two long years he had believed Sherlock to be dead. After all, there were Omegas who died in their first Heat, rare though it was. John had sweated and writhed and groaned his way through four days of intense sexual desire, wondering if he would be one of the unfortunate few whose heart gave out before the end of his Heat.

 His parents had been adamant in their desire to avoid pregnancy in their young Omega son and had denied him an Alpha during his first Heat. He'd been locked in his room alone with nothing but his hands. His parents had been ashamed of what was happening and had tried their best to completely ignore him. Occasionally, his older sister, Harry, would take pity on him and put a glass of water and a sandwich outside his bedroom door, but she had classes to attend and friends to go out with, and by the end of his Heat,  John had been badly dehydrated and had lost almost an entire stone.

 The last 24 hours had brought all that to the fore with painful clarity. While it was very unlikely that an Omega in his early 40s would die from an unfulfilled Heat, it certainly felt that way as the hormones built and John was unable to seek comfort from his Mate.

 Now, though... now, he could wallow in Sherlock's scent and the warmth of his skin. John broke the kiss to press nose and lips against the side of Sherlock's neck, breathing deeply of sweat and Alpha and cheap, unfamiliar soap even as his tongue darted out to lathe against the corded muscle beneath his lips, listening to the sharp groan his attentions drew from his Mate's throat.

 "John... John... we _can't_. We have to stop." The words were reasonable, but the tone of voice was despairing. Sherlock absolutely didn't _want_ to stop. Well, John wasn't in the business of listening to lies when the truth was written plainly in his Mate's tone, especially when what _he_ wanted lined up so well with what Sherlock wanted.

 His teeth nipped sharply at the tight muscles along the side of Sherlock's neck and the other man shuddered against him, his hand tightening at the back of John's head where it had been resting passively once it has become obvious that John was not going to fight against Sherlock's kisses. The feeling of Sherlock's long, graceful fingers pressing into the muscles at the back of John's neck drew a soft noise from John's throat and he pressed a slightly harder bite to the side of Sherlock's neck.

 "John."

 "Mmm." John pressed a quick series of kisses along Sherlock's neck until he found the hard ridge of collarbone beneath the thin covering of skin. He set his teeth and tongue to exploring the full length of it, taking deep breaths through his nose to completely fill his sinuses and lungs with the scent of Sherlock and push away the pervasive and annoying scent of bleach. "We'll stop. Eventually."

 "No, _now._ " Their was urgency in Sherlock's voice, but Sherlock's hand was drifting down from the back of John's head to stroke gently across his upper back, fingers clenching into the material of John's button-up shirt between his shoulder blades when John's teeth nipped at the hollow of his throat.

 "You don't want to stop. Not really." John felt confident in this assessment; the evidence of it was _right there_ , pressing hard and wanting against the jut of his left hipbone. John knew each inch intimately, and suddenly nothing mattered as much as _having_ it. His hands skirted down the sides of Sherlock's body, reaching towards the zip on Sherlock's trousers. He would wrap his fingers around the hot, pulsing length of the cock and begin stroking gently. He would use slow, even strokes initially, stoking the flames of his Mate's desire until he knew that a knot was only a stroke or two away. Then he'd shake free of his own trousers and turn to present himself to his Mate, open and wet and ready from the increasing wash of hormones that were doubling and doubling in his bloodstream even as his fingertips brushed against the front of Sherlock's trousers, feeling the hard cock separated from his shaking fingers by bare millimetres of cloth.

 "No, I don't." The words came out shaking and breathy, the warmth of Sherlock's breath blowing against the side of John's face and tickling the scruff growing there from several days without the attention of a razor. "But I _need_ you to. John, we aren't _safe_ here."

 Oh. Right.

 It was like a splash of cold water to his rising libido, and John stepped back, a breath shuddering from him as he remembered where they were. They weren't safely ensconced in their flat, preparing for three or four delightfully exhausting days of giving and receiving pleasure. They were in the tiny lab attached to the building in which they'd been imprisoned and forced to fight other people for the last few days.

 Sherlock reached for him, his expression unhappy at the sudden distance between them, and John took another quick step back, his lower back colliding with the long workbench behind him.

 "We'll be home soon. We can finish this there. We... now isn't..."

 "No. Yes. Of course." Sherlock drew in a shuddering breath, eyes scanning blankly around the small lab for a second before he glanced down at his right hand in which the two syringes were still clenched. He reached down his free hand to tug uncomfortably at the front of his trousers, not doing a single thing to diminish or disguise the potent erection beneath the cloth. "Right. We'd better make our own escape now; Littleton won't be pleased to've lost not only his Alphas but also a sample of his adrenaline."

 "You would have had to've actually left the building for me to _lose_ a sample of adrenaline."

 The wash of cold horror overwhelmed even the warmth of the Heat that was flushing over John's skin. He knew that voice.

 Slowly, he turned and stared at Littleton and two hulking, muscled guards blocking their exit from the small lab.

 "Hello, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I'm so glad to've caught you. I was so pleased when your eldest brother told me he was sending his young Alpha brother and his Omega Mate to join my fights. I paid him dearly for the prize of a Mated pair. But things being what they are, we haven't had the time to have a proper chat. Let's rectify that, shall we?"


	18. Chapter 18

"I find it very hard to believe even Ford would have sold us to you." The note of dismissal in Sherlock's voice was impossible for anyone to miss. Despite the fact that he and John were trapped like mice behind the suddenly slamming door of a cage, the tall Alpha did not even seem worried. If anything, he looked put out by Littleton's abrupt appearance in the hallway leading into the tiny lab.

"I assure you, Mr. Holmes, your brother gave me fair warning that you would approach my fighting ring in the hopes of signing on as a fighter. He even told me what story to feed you to convince you to come along peacefully. True, my guards would have been able to subdue both you and your Omega with little difficulty, but I prefer whenever possible to keep the violence within the ring where men can bet on it." Littleton's smile briefly exposed his teeth. In his thin face, the sudden flash of teeth gave him a death's head appearance and John had to look away for a moment, a shudder of disgust trickling through him. Breaking away from Littleton and the guards allowed his eyes to quickly scan the room as he tried to figure out an escape route for both himself and Sherlock. No windows, cinder block walls, cement floor, only one door in or out... there was no helping it: they'd have to fight.

John shifted slightly and felt a distracting tickle of fluid escaping him. Sherlock's sharp inhale beside him told John that his Mate was not unaware of the scent rising from John in chokingly thick waves, made worse each time he moved and his own Heat fluids added to the growing dampness in his pants. He watched a faint shudder of want travel up Sherlock's body, and John felt his own body thrum in anticipation of the sex that was sure to follow such a blatant display of interest. It was getting harder and harder to reason his way out of throwing himself at his Mate, hormones and chemicals fogging his thought processes and his ability to move productively beyond presenting himself. How the hell were they going to _fight_ their way out of this?

"It seems your attention is not on our conversation, Mr. Holmes." Littleton's smile was gone, his eyes sharp as he scanned over Sherlock. "Are you trying to work out your escape? Allow me to assist you: there _is_ no escape. You have lost me my entire hard-sought ring of Alpha fighters, and I'll have to cancel the fight this evening, but I have dossiers on at least seven or eight potential Alphas in various countries that I've been tracking over the last week or two. It will be the matter of a few hours work to snatch them from the streets or drag them from their homes and do a blood test to ensure they are, indeed, Alphas. I'll have a full ring again by tomorrow evening, and I'll see to it that you're my main event fight. I might even put you in there against your Omega." Littleton's eyes slid to John for a moment, a faint, pitying smile ticking at the corners of his mouth as he glanced up and down John's body. "He's shaking at the sight of us, did you know? Poor little Omega... frightened out of his wits. Imagine if we inject you with adrenaline and throw your Omega into the cage with you, the only target to lash out at? He can barely fight another _Omega_ ; I doubt he'd last long against an Alpha, especially _his_ Alpha."

"I would never hurt John." There was not even the faintest tremor of doubt in Sherlock's voice. He spoke the words like a man who was speaking an unshakeable truth, and John felt warmth spreading through his chest at Sherlock's surety.

"Hmm." Littleton did not sound convinced. He shifted from one skinny, bespoke-suited leg to the other, arms crossing over his chest for a moment as he glanced between Sherlock and John, his mouth still quirking into the faintest of smiles. "Perhaps with a _double_ dose of adrenaline. I've never tried a double dose on anyone before; I've always been afraid of losing valuable stock. Of course, I feel it would be a fitting punishment after what you've done this morning. It's possible it could send you into a berserker state and make you absolutely tear your Omega apart... or it might simply cause your heart to give out. It will be immensely interesting to see what happens. I suppose we'll find out tomorrow night."

"You'll never get the satisfaction." Sherlock moved with shocking speed, but he did not throw himself towards Littleton and his guards. Instead, he spun towards John, uncapping one of the needle-equipped syringes of synthetic adrenaline in his hand with his teeth. Before John could react, the hypodermic needle plunged into the muscle of his upper arm and Sherlock depressed the plunger, injecting the synthetic adrenaline into him.

"Stop him!" Littleton's outraged shout came too slowly for his two guards to stop Sherlock. The empty syringe clattered to the cement floor as Sherlock spun to face them, already ducking past the grabbing arms of the first of the heavily muscled men. He moved with grace and speed, slipping past Littleton to swing an uppercut into the chin of the second, much slower, guard and causing the large man to stumble back into the cinderblock wall.

The synthetic adrenaline moved fast. John's heart skipped once as Sherlock dodged the first guard's grab, and then it launched into a wild gallop, blood coursing through him in an almost-painful rush. Tingles moved through his hands and feet, sparkling in his fingers and toes with electrical snaps that made him long to smash them against something until the sharp pings stopped. The throbbing need of his Heat low in his belly that had been dragging him like a dog on a lead for hours blew away like dandelion fluff, leaving him feeling as sharp as knives... and unspeakably angry. His thoughts were covered in a thin layer of red, hot and furious and desperate to _hurt_ someone.

Sherlock was turning from the guard he'd just struck, anticipating the rush of the second guard whom he'd dodged seconds before, but John got there first, his lips peeling away from his teeth in a snarling smile as the redness of his fury pushed him forward. He brought his clasped fists down on the back of the huge man's neck as the guard turned to meet Sherlock, shocking him and making him stumble. Without a pause, John hooked one foot around the guard's ankle, grabbing the desperately flailing hand that reached back ineffectively to stop the attack. The grip made the sparkles in his fingertips dissipate for a moment, and John tightened his hold even more.

John twisted against the man's weight, using his foot to bring the much larger man down to the ground while simultaneously putting increasingly sharp, twisting pressure against the guard's wrist where he grasped it. There was only a slight difference between putting enough pressure on the small bones and long tendons in the wrist to sprain someone or to break them. The adrenaline screaming through him made John want to hurt this man threatening him and his Mate, but it wasn't until he heard the guard's shriek of pain that John realized he had twisted too severely. He'd broken the thin bones along the thumb-side of the man's wrist.

John released the guard's wrist, stepping back as the huge man cradled his injury to his chest, wheezing in the shock of the pain. There was only a moment's hesitation, brought on by the startling sound of the huge man's bird-like shriek of pain when his wrist bones snapped, and then the adrenaline was pushing John forward towards his still-keening target. He wanted to stop that noise, and if shattering the man's jaw was the only way to do it, then surely that act of violence would soothe the pulsing redness in his mind.

But Sherlock's kick caught the whinging guard in his chin, thrusting his head into the edge of the long work bench just behind him. The guard went down to the cement floor, limp and silent. John felt a frustrated rush of unhappiness; _he'd_ wanted to take care of that problem. He reached one hand up to scrub at his eyes, masking his disappointment behind his hand. The guard was still unconscious when John dropped his hand and looked likely to stay that way for the next five seconds.

John spun away, his twitching anger seeking a new victim. He stopped immediately, taking in the second downed guard and Littleton, his thin hands clutching nervously at the front of his suit jacket as his white-rimmed eyes took in both of his unconscious hired muscle and the two men glaring at him.

"I... I..." The thin man was stuttering, backing quickly away as Sherlock approached him. "Stop! I have money. I'll give you money. I'll give you... I can give you anything you want!"

Sherlock paced after the shaking man, his expression grim, John right on his heels. The three of them rounded the corner from the lab, moving towards the door that would lead out to the main body of the ASDA building. "I think I'd rather give you to my brother."

"To Sherrinford?" Littleton sounded utterly confused, pressing back against the cinder blocks beside the door. "But he _sold_ you to me!"

"No, not Sherrinford. Mycroft."

Littleton's shocky pallor went deathly white, his lips peeling back from his teeth in a rictus as the name sank in. He sagged against the wall, his thin legs giving out abruptly, and Sherlock shoved past him. John followed, fighting the urge to throw a punch at Littleton's disgusting face as he passed by. The tingles in his hands were back, although not as intensely as before. He still wanted to hurt someone, but he was able to hold himself back from it, if only just barely. Littleton's loud gulp followed them out the door.

The guards in the freestanding prison cells were awake and furious, their voices rising in offended shouts as John and Sherlock appeared from the door leading to the lab. Sherlock ignored then all, moving with speed towards the loading area through which they had originally entered the ASDA building. They were nearly to the door when Littleton's shout caught them.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm begging you! You can't! Mycroft will _ruin_ me!"

Sherlock didn't even pause, jerking open the exit door even as he called over his shoulder, "I know. Don't you have guards to let out of cages?" And they stepped out of the building, the heavy metal door clanging shut behind them and cutting off Littleton's rising shriek and the rumble of the imprisoned guards' voices.

As soon as they were clear of the loading area, Sherlock broke into a run, his long legs eating up the pavement and making John strain to keep up as he put distance between them and the building that had been their prison for the last few days.

"Where _are_ we?" John shouted, but Sherlock didn't bother replying. He was saving his breath for running. When it became obvious a reply wouldn't be forthcoming, John gritted his teeth and dug in, managing to put on a burst of speed that allowed him to catch hold of the back of Sherlock's shirt, jerking it from the hem of the man's pants. Sherlock stumbled to a stop, spinning to knock John's hand away. In the same motion, he caught John's face in his hands, slamming a kiss to the shorter man's mouth that was as full of passion as it was completely lacking in finesse, lips and teeth and tongue all clashing against John's in a thrilling and confusing tangle.

"The adrenaline has lessened how strongly your Heat affects _you_ , John, but it's done nothing for _me_. I'm holding on by my _fingernails_ right now. Do you understand me? I'm fighting with everything in me not to knock you over, rip off your trousers, and knot you right here on the pavement. For God's sake, John, can we at least wait until we find a taxi cab before we attempt any kind of discussion?"

John opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock's mouth crashed down onto his yet again, Sherlock's tongue plunging desperately to seek John's even as the taller man's hips thrust against John's, his erection impossible to miss as it ticked against John's lower belly, the heat of it coming through the thin separation of clothing. The synthetic adrenaline had John keyed up enough that he didn't immediately throw himself on Sherlock in response to the sudden stimulation of tongue and pressing cock, and by the time John's body had caught on to what Sherlock was proposing, the other man had broken the kiss with a frustrated snarl and taken off in a mad dash yet again.

John stumbled after Sherlock, heart still hammering. The tingles were gone from his hands, though, and his thoughts weren't awash in red anymore. Sherlock was right, of course, John realized. They had very little time before the adrenaline would wear off completely and they'd be right back where they had been when Littleton and his goons had walked in: trying to say 'no' to biology while biology ignored their protests completely and sought to thrust them together.

Sherlock turned a corner and John followed. Several blocks ahead of them, John could see traffic passing along a connecting street. Where there was traffic, there would surely be taxi cabs. Sherlock rushed ahead, his longer legs cutting the distance down much faster than John could hope to, especially as the adrenaline began to dissipate. Fatigue dragged at him, making him stumble. He was wheezing a bit now, his body struggling to meet his demands. Every step caused a new trickle of wetness to slip from him.

"Oh, God," John wheezed, stumbling to a halt beside Sherlock and leaning forward, bracing his hands on his knees as he sought to catch his breath. "It's worn off. It's worn off."

"I know. I _know_." The words were gritted out past clenched teeth. "Don't touch me. Stay well back, John. We'll be home soon." And one long arm shot out, waving frantically at a taxi cab approaching them in the flow of traffic.

His skin was pulsing with warmth, John realized, and it almost certainly had nothing to do with the several-blocks run they'd just done. His clothing chafed against him at every seam, rough and shockingly unpleasant. His legs were shaking and he stumbled, arm shooting out to brace against a building even as the cab slid to the kerb in front of them.

John shut his eyes, trying to focus on slowing his breathing and controlling the increasingly sharp waves of need pulsing through him. The last hour had pushed him into full Heat. The desperate need was no longer merely uncomfortable; it was _painful_. He didn't just need Sherlock now. He _needed_ Sherlock. This was more than just sexual desire. This was like having a pillow pressed tight to his face, having his air cut off. He couldn't do this... he couldn't stand this. He could hear Sherlock's low, rumbling voice as he spoke to the cabbie, but he couldn't pick out a single sensible word. He needed... _needed_.

"John! Please, you have to walk. I can't... please, John, I can't _touch_ you. I'm... John, I'm _trying_ , but you have to _walk!_ "

The words filtered through to him slowly, everything overwhelmed by his biological need to meet his body's demands. John raised his head, focusing on Sherlock beside him after several silent, blinking moments. One long-fingered hand was covering Sherlock's nose and lush mouth, trying to dim John's scent. The other hand was stretched towards John, close to but not quite touching him. God, John wanted Sherlock to touch him. Yes, touch and grasp and fill... that was what he needed. John pushed off the wall, still stumbling on legs gone unreliable with want. Sherlock backed away and John followed, unaware that Sherlock was leading him towards the waiting taxi cab.

"Come on, John. We're going home. You can't touch me now... but you can touch me at home."

Not now? Why the hell _not_ now? John struggled to understand what his Mate was saying. Physically, all the indicators were there that Sherlock wanted this as much as John did: flushed cheeks behind the covering hand, bright eyes with wide pupils, increased respiration, and an impossible-to-dismiss bulge in Sherlock's trousers.

A group of rough-looking men shoved between Sherlock and John and, for a moment, John remembered. They were still in public. They were still dangerously close to Littleton and ten very large guards who would happily drag John and Sherlock both back to their cage if they were caught.

Sherlock was sliding into the backseat of the cab, his eyes above the hand over his nose locked on John where he stood on the pavement. After a brief hesitation as John tried to remember how to utilize legs and arms to get into a waiting cab, John tumbled in after his Mate.

"Is he all right?" The cabbie sounded doubtful, but John couldn't be bothered to look at him. He needed to keep his gaze locked on his Mate. They couldn't touch, but they could look.

"Rough night. Too much to drink. I'll pay double if you can get us there quickly."

The cabbie grunted and muttered, "He better not be sick in my cab" but he pulled out into traffic, the rumble of the engine vibrating through the seat and through John's taught body as they moved towards their flat and the relief of privacy and safety. The trickle was constant now.


	19. Chapter 19

"Keep it. Keep the change." The annoyance in Sherlock's voice broke through John's distraction and he opened his eyes to glance around, registering the breeze sliding through the open door across the backseat and brushing gently over his super-sensitized skin, the air caressing him gently, coolly pleasant against the prickling heat of his skin.

John had shut his eyes some time ago - a couple minutes ago, he'd thought, but they were at 221 Baker Street now and they hadn't been within a couple minutes of Baker Street when he'd shut them. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face, tickling unpleasantly, but the effort to raise his hands and wipe it away wasn't worth it.  The breeze teased against the sweat and John shifted uncomfortably; that felt entirely too like a lover's tongue sliding down the side of his face and it was horrible to want it and not have it. Where the hell was the breeze coming from? John looked around the cab, blinking dumbly. Sherlock was out of the taxi cab, his face tense as he bent low to peer through the open doorway at John.

"John? We're here. You can come out now."

"Please," the cabbie said, his voice a mutter from the front seat. John started to slide across the seat towards Sherlock, but he froze when he felt just how wet his pants and trousers had become during the cab ride. If he slid, he'd leave a damp track all the way across the back seat. His eyes flicked down into his lap and then back up to Sherlock's face, expression twisting as he struggled with what to do. Sherlock's eyebrows drew down in momentary confusion, eyes flicking across John and around the backseat as he tried to suss out the problem. It only took him a few seconds and then understanding flashed across his face. Without hesitation, he slammed the door shut on his side and slid around the back of the taxi cab, jerking open John's door and offering both of his hands to his sweating, shaking Mate.

"You said... don't touch?" The words felt ridiculously hard to pull from the part of his brain that controlled speech. It was submerged beneath the base, aching desire to ease the insistent need radiating in sharp, almost painful waves from his lower body. That was nearly all John could concentrate on now.

"We're here. You can touch me now."

It was all the invitation John needed. With a shudder of longing, he half-stepped and half-fell from the back of the cab, his shoes scraping across the pavement before Sherlock's arms caught him and wrapping tightly around John's chest, supporting most of his weight. John buried his face in Sherlock's neck, taking shaky, gasping breaths of his Mate's scent. His slick had thoroughly wet his trousers now; he could feel the chill of the breeze all down the backs of his thighs. But what did that matter now? They were home, he was in his Mate's arms, and his Heat would not go unfulfilled. John's tongue flicked out, the tip teasing across what little of Sherlock's collarbone John could get to, and Sherlock's groan in response made John want to _bite_.

"Come on, John. Inside. Almost... for God's sake, John!" The last was said in a desperate rush as John gave in to the desire to put teeth to flesh, nibbling his way back down the length of collarbone he'd just licked his way up. Sherlock stumbled back, but his arms didn't release from their tight grip around John and his hands were clutching almost desperately at John's shirt, so John went along with him, his feet tangling ineffectively as they made their way along.

John growled his frustration into the heated skin of Sherlock's long neck when one of Sherlock's arms came out from around him, fumbling somewhere that wasn't a part of John's anatomy and therefore was a complete waste of time. Then John heard a door opening and they were tripping and stumbling up steps and into the familiar scents of the entryway to 221 Baker Street. Sherlock's arm was back around John again, hand gripping and jerking almost angrily at John's shirt where it was tucked into his damp trousers. John felt the edge of Sherlock's nails as they scraped his lower back and he shuddered with the pleasure of it.

"Oh, boys, good; you're home - oh!"

"Not _now_ , Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock's voice was a low growl, his lips moving against John's temple and his breath tickling through John's hair.

"I can see that, Sherlock, but there's -"

"Mrs. Hudson!" The words were almost painfully loud in John's ear, but he couldn't bring himself to care. They were making their way up the stairs to 221B at an embarrasingly slow pace, although considering they were still wrapped around each other and all but eating one another alive, perhaps the pace was actually admirable.

"But, Sherlock - oh, dear..." Mrs. Hudson's hands fluttered at her chest and her chin. She seemed torn between going back into her flat to avoid the very wanton display slowly making its way to the second storey flat and staying in the entryway to say whatever it was she felt needed saying.

"Later, Mrs. Hudson. In a few days. Not _now_." And they were on the landing to their flat, Sherlock regretfully removing his hand from John's lower back to once again fumble open a door. They fell through it and to one side, tumbling over the arm of the couch and fetching up against the cushions rather roughly, but John didn't care because the scents of _home_ and _Mate_ were overwhelming him and absolutely nothing mattered except getting Sherlock's shirt off _right now_. Buttons scattered in a clattering hail across the sitting room floor and the fabric ripped as John's impatient hands sought the bare skin of Sherlock's chest. Oh, well; the shirt had been ruined anyway. Getting days-old blood out of silk would have frustrated even the best launderer, and John was only middling most days.

With his nose so full of the scent of Sherlock's skin and sweat and his ears full of Sherlock's deep, full-throated groans, it took John's nose a second to pick up the scent of Someone Else in the flat. As soon as he noticed it, though, he froze on top of Sherlock and turned towards the scent, resisting Sherlock's insistently tugging hands with some difficulty. Obviously, Sherlock had not scented the Other in their flat; his nose was almost certainly filled with the scent of his Mate in Heat. John, however, smelled the unwanted visitor easily.

"Have I interrupted something?" Mycroft somehow managed to make the words sound both mocking and scolding at the same time and Sherlock went absolutely still and rigid beneath John.

"Mycroft." Sherlock spat the word between clenched teeth, his lips peeling back in a feral expression as, once again, he and John were stymied in their attempts to fulfill John's Heat. John could completely understand the frustration, but he couldn't have sex in front of _Mycroft_ ; not even his biological need would overwhelm the horror of _Mycroft_ in their flat.

"I've been looking for you for the last two days, Sherlock. I'm impressed you managed to stay hidden from me for that long. I had nearly every available agent out searching for you two."

"It's because of Sherrinford but now is _not_ the time."

"Sherrinford? What do -"

" _Now is not the time!"_ The words came out in a frustrated shout that made Mycroft take a single, startled step backwards, and John dropped his face to Sherlock's bare chest, lips traveling gently down the sweat-damp skin until they encountered a single, pebbled nipple. John set to work on it earnestly, enjoying the writhe of Sherlock's body beneath him. He couldn't ignore his Mate just now even if he wanted to, even with Mycroft only a few feet away.

"Mmm. In a few days, then. You _will_ call me as soon as this... situation is dealt with. Otherwise, I'll have no problem with stationing someone on the landing outside your flat."

"Fine. _Fine!_ Just _leave_ , Mycroft!" Sherlock's nails were digging into John's lower back again and it was wonderful to feel them grip and scrape against his sensitive skin. The pain was a small thing and it interrupted the constant creeping need that trickled frustratingly over every inch of his skin.

John only knew Mycroft had left and they were finally, blessedly alone because Sherlock abruptly rolled them off of the couch and onto the floor, narrowly missing the coffee table. They landed roughly on the large area rug which bunched uncomfortably beneath John's lower back in response to their sudden, uncoordinted appearance on top of it. He only had a moment to feel the discomfort, though, before Sherlock was jerking impatiently at the button and zip on John's trousers and pushing both trousers and sodden pants down past John's knees. Long, eager fingers found John wet, open, and achingly tender. Sherlock had managed to insert two fingers only halfway into him before John gasped and came, his cock pulsing helplessly after his seed was sprayed across his already-dirty shirt.

"John. Jesus, John." The words didn't sound like a curse. If anything, they sounded like a desperate prayer. John felt the fingers sliding free of him, and, if he hadn't just come seconds before, he would've come all over himself a second time. When was the last time he'd been this sensitive? Probably his first Heat all those years ago when he'd tried so urgently to fulfill his needs without an Alpha there to help him. He was seconds away from becoming a mewling, pitiful creature if he didn't get knotted soon. The biological imperative would not be put off any longer, not even if Mycroft returned. God, not even if _Sherrinford_ marched through the door and started taking notes.

"Thank God," Sherlock muttered, and John turned his head slightly. Sherlock was sitting up from digging under the sofa, a single foil-wrapped condom in his hand. "I'd seen it under there weeks ago... I had hoped Mrs. Hudson hadn't cleaned it... thank God."

John snorted out a soft laugh that died much too quickly. He writhed uncomfortably against the floor, his amusement sputtering and dying under his body's frantic shriek for fulfillment. He closed his eyes, hissing in a frustrated breath as his nails dug into the bunched rug beneath him, clawing at the soft fabric. His single orgasm had done nothing for him and he was aching and too hot and everything felt irritated and he just wanted to _get away_ but there was nowhere to go. He was trapped in his stupid, hormone-ruled body and there was no relief.

But Sherlock was turning him, trying to be gentle but obviously unable to be patient, his fingers gripping John's bare hips a little too hard as he urged John onto his knees. Once he realized what Sherlock was asking from him, John turned willingly, resting his sweating forehead against his forearms crossed on the floor and raising his arse into the air. He heard the zip on Sherlock's trousers go and the faint rustle of clothes being shoved down and then he could feel the beautiful heat of his Mate's condom-sheathed cock pressing against his opening.

But Sherlock stopped there, hands still gripping John's hips as he hesitated. "I haven't... we haven't prepped -"

"God, just _do it_. Can't you see I don't need anything else just now?" John's words were muffled by the bit of bunched up rug by his face, but Sherlock heard him fine. Long fingers gripped tighter to John's hips, Sherlock's thumbs biting into the top of his arse, and Sherlock pressed forward slowly, the head of his cock encountering almost no resistance from John's overly ready body. The slow slide of the cock into him was like a benediction, drawing a shuddering sigh of relief from John as Sherlock slowly pressed in and in and in. When Sherlock's pelvis met John's arse, John released a second deep sigh, feeling tears gathering against his lashes at being filled.

Sherlock's fingers were trembling where they gripped against John's hips and there was the faintest tremor coming through Sherlock's hips where they pressed against John. "I want..."

"I know." John was familiar with that tremble in his Mate. After a few years of sharing a bed with Sherlock, it was obvious to John when Sherlock was at the edge of his ability to be gentle in sex. Thankfully, with the slick almost pouring from him and his body so open and receptive, John did not need any gentleness. "Do it. Hard."

"John." His name was spoken in a worshipful tone, Sherlock bending low to press a swift kiss to John's back through his filthy shirt, and then Sherlock was plunging into him roughly, his speed driving John rapidly towards his second orgasm in only a few frictionless thrusts. Heat and pleasure twisted within John until he had to grip the rug with both hands and was keening open-mouthed into the bunched up bit of rug at his mouth. He came again, painting strips across the rug beneath him. He could already feel Sherlock's knot forming even as he came, the long build-up of sexual tension in both of them lending itself to the faster growth of Sherlock's knot. Sherlock was pressing forward hard, fingers digging into John's hips as he pulled John back towards him, seeking to bury his knot within his Mate.

When it finally breached him, John sucked in a sharp, pleased breath. Something inside of him seemed to release, loosening with a shudder as an Alpha's knot filled him for the first time during this Heat cycle. Sherlock began making small thrusts, the knot preventing him from fully pulling out of John, but it didn't matter. Within only a few sharp, quick thrusts, Sherlock made a low, almost mournful sound in his throat, his body shuddering against John as he came and came, filling the condom within John. They collapsed sideways as Sherlock's orgasm finished, still locked together by the knot. John felt a feather soft brush of Sherlock's lips against the long-healed scar of their bond bite on the side of his neck, and then Sherlock carefully tossed one long, pale leg over John's hip. They lay relieved and temporarily sated on the sitting room floor, breathing deeply of one another's scent in the privacy and safety of their flat.


	20. Chapter 20

After their first Heat together, John had habitually kept the kitchen of 221B well stocked with easy-to-transport-from-kitchen-to-current-love-nest tinned foods and bottles of water, even between Heat cycles. This served the two of them well over the next three days. Their couplings were as intense as ever, although for the first day they both collapsed into sleep almost as soon as each frantic sexual encounter was finished, taking turns with retrieving more condoms from the distant bedroom when the need arose. They'd gone short of sleep and food for several days and now were being forced to engage in some of the most physically strenuous activity an Alpha and Omega encountered in their lives. As enjoyable as their regained freedom was and as wonderful as the sex was, it was physically impossible to stay awake between couplings.

By the second day, though, sometime after sunrise, Sherlock managed to stumble his slow and careful way from the sitting room and into the kitchen, returning with his arms full of bottles of water and tins of beans and fish. Normally, cold beans and fish wouldn't have sounded appetizing to John so early in the morning, but they'd gone too long off vending machine food and soda. Even with the tinned beans and bottled water at room temperature, they tasted ambrosial to John. And with full stomachs, they found the energy to crawl up onto the sofa side-by-side and lean together shoulder-to-hip, John being careful of the blue-green bruise that still painted Sherlock's ribs from his fight with Alfred.

"Another day or two?" Sherlock's voice was tired and John echoed the sentiment. As nice as sex was - and with Sherlock, it pretty much always was - John would have loved to have come home and been able to relax for a day or two before jumping back in to the fray.

"Hopefully so," John agreed. "And then what?"

"Mycroft. Sherrinford. Littleton. It will all have to be sorted."

John shifted on the sofa, feeling a slowly rising tingle low in his body. He tried to ignore it for just a few minutes more, leaning his head back on the sofa and closing his eyes. "Mycroft first. He'll need to know about both Littleton and Sherrinford."

"Obviously. He'll be influential in deciding how to handle both situations." Sherlock paused and then drew in a breath to say something else, but the words died and he shifted slightly as he caught the rising scent coming from John.

"Sorry." The word was a murmur, overpowered by the increasing need that pushed John to turn towards his Mate, but Sherlock was shaking his head as he twisted, catching John's face in his long-fingered hands to draw John's mouth to his own.

"Don't apologize. Don't." And then Sherlock's voice was silenced as their mouths met, feeding hungrily at one another. In only a few seconds, their bodies were pressed along their lengths, their skin pleasantly warm where it touched. John sighed into Sherlock's mouth, surrendering to the next round of very nice sex with only a little internal grumbling.

They didn't drop into sleep after that round, but they did doze for awhile, knotted together and squashed carefully onto the sofa. By the time Sherlock's knot shrank to the point that he could withdraw, they had both roused and set to the cold beans and luke-warm water with enthusiasm, trying to replenish the calories they'd lost over the last hard week.

"Toast or shower?"

The question was so strange that it made John look up from his empty tin of beans, raising a single eyebrow in confusion.

"I can make toast and we can have something warm to eat for the first time in days, or we can take a shower. I don't think we'll be able to fit both into this lull, though," Sherlock clarified, leaning carefully forward to place his own empty tin down on the coffee table.

"Shower," John said decisively. As nice as a few slices of hot, buttered toast would be, John had been wearing the same clothes for days and had only been afforded a single quick shower in that time. He wanted to scour himself with steel wool and a dilute bleach solution to get rid of the taint of Littleton's operation.

Sherlock seemed to understand without John saying anything else and he nodded, pushing up from the sofa and heading towards the bathroom. "I'll start the water. Better hurry."

John grinned and rose unsteadily from the sofa, following the beacon of Sherlock's naked arse down the hallway and to the bathroom.

Showered and with a full stomach, John's mood improved exponentially. The promised hot buttered toast appeared after their next desperately passionate encounter in the shower, the lingering heat on his skin from the water melding pleasantly with the heat coming off each mouthful of toast.

John was up with the sun on the third day and surprised to find that the desperate push for sex had already drifted away. He felt sore, tired, and hungry, but, thankfully, 'randy' was not on his list of physical complaints. Two and a half days of Heat was not his usual pattern, but then, this Heat had been nearly a month early thanks to Victor's unwelcome presence in the flat. Perhaps early Heats weren't as intense as the ones that came by their own natural biological schedule?

John pushed up from their bed, careful not to disturb Sherlock. The other man was still sleeping soundly, his mouth hanging open and voicing intermittent tiny snores, one slim arm thrown over his forehead in the classic 'fainting woman' pose. John stifled a snorted laugh as he crept across the bedroom and through the partially opened washroom door. Another shower, with liberal use of a flannel to scrub away every last iota of his imprisonment in Littleton's fighting ring, was exactly what he needed.

He was halfway through the shower when Sherlock appeared, still bleary-eyed and blinking, at the washroom door. "John?"

John paused in shampooing his hair, hands still plunged into the short wheat-and-silver strands and covered in suds. "It's over. Short this time."

"Mmm. Probably because it was early. The hormones were probably never able to reach their usual levels. I'll call Mycroft."

 John's head popped around the shower curtain. He stared doubtfully as his ruffled and sleep-flushed Mate where he stood in the doorway to the bedroom. "Wait; why does Mycroft need to know about that?"

 Amusement crossed Sherlock's face and he shook his head slightly. "I won't mention the length of your Heat. I'm going to bring him up to speed on Sherrinford and Littleton. I expect he'll be here in half an hour."

 "Right. Right, okay, I'll make this a quick shower."

 "Not _too_ quick; I'll be joining you as soon as I'm off the phone."

 John laughed as the washroom door clicked shut behind Sherlock, tipping his head back into the spray to wash the shampoo from his hair.

 Mrs. Hudson's voice trilled up the stairs exactly twenty-five minutes later, announcing Mycroft's arrival. Thankfully, they were both showered and dressed by that time and John was keeping one eye on the kettle as he waited for it to boil while he paged through a week's worth of mail on the kitchen table between the microscope and a stack of empty Petri dishes.

 Mycroft swept into the flat without his usual calm demeanor, his hands clenching tightly around his umbrella as if he'd like to use it as a bludgeon. His tension was so obvious that even John was picking up on it. He set out a third mug for tea, breaking his long-held tradition of treating Mycroft with barely concealed disdain most days.

 Sherlock was in the sitting room tuning his violin and didn't even bother to glance up when his eldest brother stepped into the flat. He spoke with boredom dripping from every word, slim fingers plucking gently at the violin's strings with each minor adjustment. "Would you like to wait on the tea or shall I jump straight into it?"

 Mycroft's strained smile was as fake as John had ever seen it and his knuckles went white as his hands tightened on the umbrella. "Let's just dive right in, shall we? I have other appointments this morning."

 Sherlock cast a single narrow-eyed smirk at his brother before returning to the violin; they all three knew that Mycroft would cancel any appointments that interfered with his ability to get the full story of Sherlock's recent disappearance. Sherlock tossed the violin onto the sofa and turned to Mycroft, the amusement gone from his face. "Then I'll be brief."

 Sherlock was true to his word. By the time John carried in the old, dinged tea tray that he and Sherlock used around the flat when they decided to have a proper tea and didn't have guests over - and Mycroft didn't count as a guest deserving of the _nice_ tea tray - Sherlock had finished summarizing the last two weeks of involvement with Sherrinford.

 Mycroft's expression was pinched by the end of it, the fingers of one hand tapping restlessly against the handle of the umbrella. "I _did_ warn you not to get involved in Sherrinford's interests."

 "Yes, I remember." Sherlock's face twisted into a smile so false that John almost choked on the sip of tea he'd been taking. There was no amusement at all on Sherlock's face. If anything, his face looked like the prelude to a rather nasty bite, and the clenched hands at his sides carried a similarly threatening vibe. "I think you can agree that he left us little choice in the matter."

 "You could have come to me -"

 Sherlock shook his head sharply, stepping away from his brother to collapse into the black leather armchair across from John's, leaving Mycroft standing alone. "What Sherrinford was asking seemed, initially, to be a one-to-one exchange. He did us a favour so we would do one for him in return. Obviously, it became more complicated as time went on and all of Sherrinford's machinations were revealed. But, at first glance, it didn't looked like anything I _needed_ assistance on."

 "Oh, Sherlock." Mycroft sounded sad and he stepped away to lower himself carefully onto the sofa next to the discarded violin, resting his umbrella tip between his polished shoes on the sitting room rug - which, thankfully, John had taken a flannel and some soapy water to just minutes before Mycroft arrived. There was still a damp spot on the patterned rug, but no off-white smears. And, really, the damp spot almost blended in with the pattern, although Mycroft had almost certainly noticed it as soon as he walked in the door to the sitting room, deduced its cause, and decided not to comment. In fact, Mycroft had kept his eyes steadfastly off the spot the entire time he'd been in the flat. Currently, he was watching Sherlock with a sorrowful look on his face. "You've known Sherrinford your entire life. When have his intentions _ever_ been straightforward?"

 Sherlock's lips thinned and he looked away from his brother, steepling his fingers under his chin as he fixed his eyes to the sitting room window across from him. "I thought I could handle it without any outside help. And, actually, I _did_."

 "Except that you now need me to deal with Littleton."

 "Except for that." Sherlock waved one dismissive hand before putting his fingertips back together and returning his focus to the window behind John's chair.

 "You still have the synthetic adrenaline?"

 "Mmm."

 Mycroft tapped his fingertips thoughtfully on the handle of the umbrella. "If it is as useful as your descriptions imply, it would be worthwhile for us to continue Littleton's research - without the forced human experimentation."

 "Yes, yes, of course. It's yours. I hardly want to reward Ford by giving it to him." Sherlock  leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and tapping one forefinger against his chin thoughtfully. "I feel that it would be best for Sherrinford to be taught a lesson about why one does not take advantage of their younger brother by selling him into a fighting ring."      

Mycroft pasted on a pinched smile as false as Sherlock's had been. "And how, exactly, do you plan on doing that?"

 Sherlock dropped his hands to his lap, twisting to look at Mycroft once again, his expression eager. "I have some ideas, but I'll need your help."

 Mycroft spread his hands wide, umbrella leaning against one knee. "I am at your disposal."

 "You'll need to cancel your appointments for the morning."

 Mycroft's lips thinned even more at the not-that-subtle jab and he carefully pulled a mobile from a pocket, raising it. "Yes, I suppose I will. I'll let Anthea know to handle it. Now, enlighten me: what do you have planned for our dear Sherrinford?"


	21. Chapter 21

The next morning, the first mug's of that days tea were only just beginning to steep when Mycroft gave Sherlock a subtle nod across the kitchen and Sherlock lifted his mobile to his ear, a faint smile ticking up the corners of his mouth. John had only enough time to remove the milk from the refrigerator and settle it on the counter before Sherlock was speaking.

 "We're home safely, no thanks to you." Sherlock paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he listened to his brother speaking from the tiny speaker. "No, I didn't forget your panic button, but I'd rather not owe you _another_ savior's debt. The first one was nearly more costly than what I could afford. Anyway, we're home now, and I have your sample. We'll expect to see you soon."

 Sherlock rang off, shoving the mobile into his pocket with perhaps a little more force than absolutely necessary. John glanced over at Mycroft on the opposite side of the kitchen, taking in the older man's calm expression. "Are you _sure_ Sherrinford won't notice anything?"

 "If I didn't know what to look for, _I_ wouldn't be able to spot the MI5 agents lurking on Baker Street. I'm quite certain that Sherrinford won't notice anything is amiss. His powers of observation have always been on a more plebian level than that of Sherlock or myself. His mental prowess lies in _other_ areas, more's the pity."

 John knew his face still showed a hint of his doubt, and he turned towards his Mate for reassurance. Sherlock nodded without hesitation. "Mycroft is right. Sherrinford will not be expecting a double cross from me; it's out of character for what he's come to expect from his little brother. Also, it's unlikely Littleton had a chance to tell Ford about what happened in the fighting ring, especially since he ran for Venezuela so quickly after we'd left the ASDA building."

 "Venezuela? So, Littleton got away?"

 "Not at all," Mycroft said, tapping a forefinger lightly on the handle of his umbrella. "He had a brief layover in Venezuela before he was apprehended and brought back to British soil. You don't need to know anything else about him besides the fact that he is being dealt with for his crimes against both British and foreign citizens."

 "You're right; that _is_ all I need." John didn't fight the satisfied smirk that swept across his face at the confirmation of Littleton getting his just desserts. Details would have been delicious, but they weren't necessary. As long as Littleton was no longer free to enslave Alphas and Omegas and waste their lives in ridiculous cage fights, John could be satisfied.

 "Tea?" Sherlock stepped to the kitchen counter, eyeing the mugs.

 "Right. Of course." John turned away from his own musings and glanced at the mugs before removing the tea bags from the hot water. He and Sherlock doctored up the mugs quickly and moved into the sitting room, settling themselves in their armchairs to sip tea and wait on Sherrinford, seemingly passing a normal morning in their flat. Mycroft stayed in the kitchen out of the line of sight from the flat's front doorway into the sitting room, apparently content to stand unmoving and silent.

 Their mugs of tea were half consumed and quickly cooling when they heard the distant chiming of the front bell. As usual, the connection in their flat was disconnected - as usual by Sherlock, this time specifically in a fit of pique one afternoon two weeks previous - so they had only the faint sound of Mrs. Hudson's bell downstairs to alert them. John set his mug down on the small end table next to his armchair, turning expectantly towards the sitting room door, but Sherlock continued to sip, unperturbed.

 After a moment, the sound of Mrs. Hudson mounting the steps to their flat filtered through the closed door. Her customary tap and 'ooo hoo!' announced her as she pushed the door open, glancing into the flat with a faint smile. "Sherlock, you have a visitor."

 Mrs. Hudson pushed the door wide, stepping back to make room for Sherrinford to come through. He was dressed in another bespoke suit, every line speaking of his place of privilege and power in the world. His blond curls were perfectly arranged, his deep-set eyes shining with excitement, and the sharp smile on his face exposed nearly all his teeth, making his joy seem almost threatening.

 "Little brother, I had faith that you would come through for me. Honestly, though, you've surprised me with how quickly you accomplished your task."

 "We weren't planning to hang around there for long." Sherlock didn't even bother glancing at Sherrinford, his eyes fixed firmly on John where the other man was sat across from him. Mrs. Hudson retreated, shutting the sitting room door quietly as she left the men to their conversation and Sherlock turned his mug in his hands slowly, still refusing to look at his brother across the room. "Especially once we found that you'd _sold_ us to Littleton."

 Sherrinford's smile froze, his eyes sweeping between Sherlock and John rapidly from his position next to the sitting room door. When it seemed apparent that no immediate physical injury was coming his way, he raised his hands to waist level, palms pointed towards Sherlock in an 'I-mean-no-harm' gesture. "It was the only way I could ensure Littleton would accept you into the fighting ring. He kidnaps the majority of the fighters off the street after a few weeks of observation. Asking him to allow you into the ring without a convincing excuse for you being there would have been impossible. I thought selling you made sense... and it netted me an easy half million pounds. You can't argue against that kind of business sense, little brother."

 "Can't I?" Sherlock glanced over, his expression briefly furious as his pale blue eyes clapped onto his older brother's neatly dressed form. He pulled his eyes away after only a moment, rising from his armchair to move towards Ford, taking a brief detour to deposit his empty tea mug on the coffee table. "You sent us in without really giving us all the details, Ford. I didn't ask much of you; I agreed to run your errand for you. The very _least_ you could have done was give us all the details of what would be happening and what Littleton had been told about us."

 "I don't believe in giving all available information to _anyone_. It's served me well in my endeavors throughout my life." Ford lowered his hands to his sides, keeping a watchful gaze locked on Sherlock as the slightly shorter man approached him.

 "Much like you didn't bother telling us that Victor was days away from his next Heat when you forced him on us?"

 "I didn't think that was information you needed. It wouldn't have changed your debt to me if you'd known it, and keeping you both unaware of Victor's Heat loaded the deck in favor of a successful breeding."

 John drew a long, slow breath in through his nose, hands clamped tightly onto the arms of his chair as he fought the urge to get up and hit Sherrinford in his sharply angled face until his arms were too tired to lift. Sherrinford spoke as if he didn't have the slightest clue just how _wrong_ everything he'd done to them had been. It was like his genetic makeup was somehow missing basic empathy.

 "I am _not_ a card in your deck." Sherlock sounded furious and he took another threatening step towards Sherrinford, stopping inches away from his older brother, standing so close that their noses nearly touched . "I am not a _piece_ for you to play your games with. Were you aware that having an Omega in Heat near another Omega could bring on an early Heat in the second Omega?"

 Sherrinford hesitated, his eyes ticking quickly from Sherlock to John and then back. "I'd heard rumours, but nothing substantiated."

 "And that was more information you deemed unimportant for us to know?"

 Sherrinford didn't answer, but the truth was obvious.

 "We nearly got killed because of that." John couldn't stop himself from speaking, the words tight with fury. "Because of my stupid biological -"

 "John." Sherlock's voice was soft, none of the anger he'd been directing at Ford evident as he spoke his Mate's name. John shut his mouth so sharply that his teeth clicked together. After a brief pause, Sherrinford shifted his weight from one foot to the other and shrugged his shoulders slightly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he stared at Sherlock.

 "You both seem well enough now. Everything turned out all right, so it couldn't've been as bad as you think. Littleton had enough brute force backing him up that, had it been _truly_ dire, neither of you would've been here to scold me now."

 "You -!" John cut himself off this time, unable to find words vile enough to express his boiling anger at Ford. The man not only hadn't apologized for knowingly putting them in a dangerous situation without important information, he had implied that the threat to them wasn't as near a thing as it had been. John realized his hands were trembling with the effort to _not_ hit the taller man and he panted through his nose, body thrumming with adrenaline as it prepared itself for a fight that he _couldn't_ engage in.

 "It was bad enough." Suddenly, Sherlock sounded more tired than angry, and he turned away from Ford to move back towards John, stopping just behind John's armchair to rest one warm palm on John's shoulder. Even across the room and distracted by his justified anger at his brother, he hadn't missed how upset his Mate was becoming. "You've taken advantage of me before, Ford, but you've never put me in that much danger. Worse, you put _John_ in danger. I can't let that stand."

 "Oh, Sherlock, come now. You're being a _bit_ dramatic. You knew it would be dangerous; I didn't hide _that_ from you. And yet you still agreed to -"

 "You had us trapped. We had no choice. And you're completely unrepentant over the danger you put both me and my Mate into. It's unforgiveable, not that you've given any indication that you'd seek forgiveness for your actions." Sherlock shook his head faintly, twisting slightly to glance into the kitchen at Mycroft, still hidden from Ford's line of sight by the jutting bit of wall between the sitting room and kitchen. Mycroft strode forward, stepping through the kitchen doorway and turning towards Ford calmly.

 "Hello, Sherrinford."

 There was the briefest pause as shock passed over Ford's face, his eyes gone wide with disbelief as he took in Mycroft's surprisingly imposing form. Ford's eyes flashed to Sherlock briefly, betrayed fury in them, and then Ford was turning to the sitting room door, jerking it open to flee. He was only two steps out of it when armed men in body armour waiting on the landing to 221B stopped him, their arms wrapping around him tightly and creasing his suit as he struggled briefly. After a moment, he noticed the men and women standing in the front entryway and even with his stilted powers of observation, he seemed to recognize that he wouldn't be escaping. Ford threw a furious glance over his shoulder towards his brothers in the sitting room.

"You...!"  
  
"As always, it's my task to clear up the mess you've created, Sherrinford. Even you can admit that some punishment for your misdeeds is long overdue, and at this point in your life, we can hardly ask Mother to take away your privileges for a week."

"Mother has _never_ -"

Mycroft spoke over Sherrinford, seemingly unaware that the other man had even begun speaking. "I had hoped that with greater age, you'd learn... but, no, I suppose this is to be expected given your past proclivities." 

"Oh, _you_ can hardly judge my -"

"Still, even _I_ am appalled at the way you've treated our little brother and his Mate. You've gone too far this time, Sherrinford, and you're sorely in need of a lesson. I think you and I are going to have several very busy months together."

"Together? You... but you can't hold me. I profited off something questionable, but there's no indication I knew that Littleton was doing anything illegal. I'm still a British citizen and -"  
  
"Precisely, and you've been a person of interest to the British government for several years due to poor choices in your past. Honestly, it will be a relief to clear both my and Sherlock's good names by turning you over to the proper authorities." Ford's face flushed with anger and then drained of color as the realization of his fate slowly sank in, leaving him nearly dangling from the grips of his captors. Mycroft took in his expression and, seeming gratified, thumped the tip of his umbrella lightly on the floor of the sitting room. "But that's not really a topic for now, and we'll have plenty of time to discuss your punishments once we've left your latest victims in peace. Excuse me a moment." Mycroft looked away from Ford, dismissing him from the conversation. Ford made an offended noise but a slight shake from one of the armoured men holding him in place convinced him to close his mouth on whatever he'd been about to say.

 Mycroft stared at John and Sherlock for a moment and then asked, "I suppose that's it, then. Can I expect to find you here should I have any other questions for you later today?"

 "I would imagine we could use a few hours of quiet after the last two weeks." Sherlock squeezed John's shoulder lightly before clasping his hands behind himself at his low back and turning to face Mycroft, taking a couple of steps closer to his eldest brother. "Unless something unexpected comes up, I feel safe in assuring you that we'll be here."

 Mycroft raised a single eyebrow at Sherlock's words but only tapped a forefinger lightly on the handle of him umbrella before turning towards the grouping on the landing outside the flat. "I'll see to the rest, then. Good morning." Mycroft paced from the sitting room, shutting the door behind him as he exited. The sounds of Ford being escorted down the stairs and out of 221 Baker Street faded, leaving John and Sherlock in silence. John released a slow breath, finally relaxing into the comforting embrace of his armchair. Ford was dealt with, their debt to him no longer an issue, and there was nothing pressing to be dealt with. They were truly free for the first time in _months._

 After a moment, Sherlock walked over to the sitting room table, seating himself in front of his laptop and powering it up. John gathered the two mugs and dumped them into the sink to deal with later. He was still humming with the desire to punch someone - preferably someone who deserved it, and no one was more deserving at the moment than Sherrinford Holmes - but there was nothing more for them to do at the moment. Ford was gone and in the capable hands of Mycroft and the British government. Littleton was paying for his own crimes. Everything was neatly tied up, leaving John and Sherlock nothing to do but sit in the quiet of their flat and -

 "John, look at this email." Sherlock's summons from the other room had John moving quickly out of the kitchen to join his Mate at the laptop. "This man - Harrison - says his seventeen-year-old daughter disappeared from her locked bedroom two nights ago. There's no sign of a forced entry at either the door or the windows, and they were locked from the inside."

 "Couldn't she have locked them as she left?" John asked as he stepped up behind Sherlock to read the email over the other man's shoulder.

 "She's a quadriplegic. She's confined to a wheelchair and has only the most basic use of her left hand."

 John couldn't miss the thrum of excitement in Sherlock's voice at the potential of a locked room mystery and he smiled faintly, resting his palms on Sherlock's shoulders. Sitting around the flat and doing nothing hadn't appealed to him, anyway. "All right. I'll get my jacket."

 

 

 

 


End file.
